


(we do not live) in simple terms and places

by Sibilant



Series: Pittsburgh!verse [1]
Category: (500) Days of Summer (2009), Warrior (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Coming Out, Coming of Age, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-13 11:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sibilant/pseuds/Sibilant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>When Tom is thirteen years and six months old, his mom moves them from Margate, New Jersey to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.</em>
</p><p>A story in which Tom Hansen grows up, screws up, falls in love (or so he thinks), falls out of love, falls down, and picks himself back up - not necessarily in that order, and not all at once. But he has Tommy Conlon with him throughout it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer, 1994 - Spring, 1995

**Author's Note:**

> Mad props must go to my partner in crime, smugrobotics, without whom this AU 'verse never would have been started in the first place. Credit must also be given to her for providing me with approximately 98% of Tommy's dialogue through RPs, giving me further insight into the mind of a young Tommy Conlon, hashing out plot points with me, and just being awesome.
> 
> Additionally, I must give a special thank you to theninthbow for patiently answering my questions - endless, endless questions - about New Jersey.
> 
> With that being said, all locations and settings mentioned in this fic are real, but their descriptions are entirely fictional.
> 
> WARNING: This fic will feature domestic abuse, underage sex (both het and slash), unsafe underage sex, 'casual' homophobia, a smattering of teenagers using the word 'gay' pejoratively, and also contains a heavy dose of original characters.

**Summer, 1994**

When Tom is thirteen years and six months old, his mom moves them from Margate, New Jersey to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

It’s done in one of her famous (at least, famous to their extended family) fits of irresponsible-but-still-somewhat-responsible impulsiveness. It means that while she organises the purchase of their new home, the U-haul rental, and hires the movers with perfect efficiency, she neglects to do other things.

Like inform Tom’s dad of the exact date they’re leaving.

Tom watches from the backseat of the taxi as his mom and dad have – as has become standard for them over the past seventeen months – a furious, drawn-out argument on the front lawn of his childhood home. He’d already said goodbye to his dad and climbed into the taxi reluctantly, but _something_ had set his parents off in the time it had taken him to walk to the taxi.

Tom has long since stopped trying to figure them out.

He sinks lower in his seat as Mr. and Mrs. Davies walk past with their dog, ostensibly taking it for a walk, but really to gawk. God knows why. They could’ve just stood on their porch two houses down and heard everything, Tom thinks. Almost on cue, his mom’s voice pitches louder, sharper; it’s quickly followed by a bellow from his dad, and Tom cringes. _God._ Don’t either of them care they’re in _public?_

But he doesn’t get out of the taxi, and he doesn’t try to break them up – the past year or so has taught him not to. And he doesn’t say a word when his mom slams into the passenger seat of the taxi and snaps for the driver to go, her voice still strident. He _does,_ however, crane his neck and rise up on his knees to catch a glimpse of his dad, and maybe wave goodbye.

His dad stands alone on the sidewalk in front of their house, his hand half-raised in farewell. He stays like that until the taxi turns the corner.

It’s the last time Tom sees his dad for almost two years.

 

* * *

 

Their new home is a two-storey Colonial Revival, newly renovated and painted white and pale grey. It’s smaller than Tom’s house in Margate, but it’s pretty and picture perfect. The surrounding houses are even more perfect looking. The street is quaint – lined with tall maple trees and paved with brick, not asphalt. Tom can see the Ohio River from his bedroom window.

Their neighbours introduce themselves to Tom, his mom and Martin (Tom refuses to call him anything other than Martin) the first night they arrive. They’re all smiles and welcoming handshakes, and they coo over Tom, over his dimples when he offers them a small smile. One of their neighbours – a retiree named Mr. Thieroff – offers to take them on a walking tour of the neighbourhood the next day; Tom’s mom accepts.

The next day, Tom goes on the walking tour and he sees that the entire neighbourhood is much like their street: pretty; peaceful. Nice.

Tom hates it.

 

* * *

 

“You’re still not done unpacking, sweetheart?”

Tom looks up from where he’s been sitting on the bed, staring blankly into space. His mom smiles at him. She moves into the room, picking her way past boxes and piles of discarded newspaper, and comes to sit down on the bed beside him, groaning a little.

She’s always groaning these days, and looking exhausted – she doesn’t look like Tom’s mom at all. Tom’s mom is willowy-lean, with soft hands and a wide, wide smile. She’s not supposed to be wan and tired, or walking around the house with her mouth downturned.

She rubs her back as Tom watches, and he wants to say, _See? See how much this place sucks? It’s making you tired, and it’s making you miserable all the time._ He wants to say – wants to plead, really – _let’s go home. Please? Let’s just go home to dad. You can say you’re sorry, and he’ll say he’s sorry, and then everything can go back to the way it was._

But he’s not that stupid. Tom thinks he can be called a lot of things – a lot of awful things, even – but stupid isn’t one of them. His mom is tired because of the baby, and she’s miserable because Tom’s miserable. He doesn’t want her to be. And he doesn’t want to be either, not really, but he can’t _help_ it.

So he keeps silent, staring down at the bedspread. He can feel his mom’s gaze on the side of his face like a physical touch. They stay like that for a minute, and then his mom lifts her hand. She cups his chin and tips his face up gently; she doesn’t let go until he meets her eyes.

His mom’s eyes are solemn, and she’s frowning deeply. But her voice is gentle when she says, “I know things have been— difficult, sweetheart. And I know this is nothing like home, but... this _is_ home now. So can you perhaps tryto accept it? Just a little?” Her mouth tips up in a watery smile. “Or can you at least try to finish unpacking your things? So I can stop worrying that you’ll trip over and break your neck when you get up to go to the bathroom at night?”

Tom stares at her. He loves his mom – he _does_. Even though he resents this house, and this neighbourhood, and how far away it is from his friends; even though he resents the man she left his dad for, and resents the baby in her belly, Tom loves his mom.

So he swallows down the words and the misery, as best as he can, and smiles at her. It makes her smile back at him, shades of her usual self coming through, and she kisses the top of his head.

 

* * *

 

**Autumn, 1994**

Because she’s his mom and she loves him, Tom’s mom had taken extra care to ensure Brighton Heights is a good neighbourhood for Tom to grow up in. However, because she’s still— well, _herself_ , she fails to ensure said good neighbourhood has good _schools_ nearby.

It means – after Mr. Thieroff tells her no sane parent sends their child to Pittsburgh Oliver, the local high school – that Tom’s mom spends _days_ talking to other parents and making phone calls, searching for school alternatives. She wants him to go to a charter school, like he had in Margate. Martin says he’ll even be willing to pay for private school. But, in the end, Tom goes to neither a private school nor a charter school. His mom had left it too late and the waiting lists are too long. She and Martin _do_ manage to avoid sending him to Oliver, though.

And so, when the school year comes, Tom finds himself climbing onto the bus and travelling northeast to Pittsburgh Perry High School. Neither Tom’s mom nor Martin seem particularly happy about it, but Martin says it will have to be good enough.

Over the past few months, Tom’s learned that ‘good enough’ seems to be the new standard.

He’s the only kid on his street that goes to Perry. It’s yet another thing that sets him apart, and not in a good way. Alongside being known as the only Jewish kid in the street, and the kid whose mom refuses to take her husband’s surname (her _second_ husband, no less), he’s also the only kid attending a public school. The kids on his street don’t avoid him, exactly, but they don’t go out of their way to include him in things either.

Things aren’t much better with the kids at Perry. Tom’s weird to them. He doesn’t play _Street Fighter_ or _Mortal Kombat_. He doesn’t understand _Beavis and Butthead_ quotes. He’s too quiet about the things that interest them, and he’s too talkative about things that none of them care about.

It wasn’t like this in Jersey. In Jersey, Tom had two best friends, a comfortable circle of other friends and acquaintances, and no one thought he was weird for liking the things he did. And if he was less miserable about the move, or his parents’ divorce, or his mom’s re-marriage, or his ( _ugh, God_ ) soon-to-be baby brother or sister, Tom might’ve made more of an effort to fit in.

But he _is_ miserable, and so he doesn’t make more of an effort. By the time school is in full swing, everyone’s more or less sorted themselves into cliques and circles, and Tom’s used up all his social capital in being the new kid.

But there’re still classes to attend, and Tom’s always been good at school, so he supposes things aren’t completely hopeless. He supposes it will have to be good enough.

 

* * *

 

On Tuesday, 7th of November, ‘good enough’ stops being good enough.

Tom’s in third period Social Studies and, at the front of the class, Ms. Tyler has begun pairing students together for the class project. Everyone is looking around, casting hopeful glances at their friends. Tom doesn’t look around. He just hopes Ms. Tyler will pair him with someone who’ll pull their weight.

“Tom Hansen—”

Tom glances up expectantly.

“—and Tommy Conlon.”

Oh, _what?_

Tom’s mouth drops open.

From behind him, toward the back row, he hears a voice say: “Huh?”

Ms. Tyler purses her mouth slightly. “I _said_ , Mr. Conlon, that your partner for the time capsule project will be Tom Hansen.”

Tom frowns. He looks over his shoulder in time to see Tommy Conlon staring at Ms. Tyler mulishly. The second Tom turns to look, Tommy glances over at him, and he meets Tom’s frown with one of his own.

There’s a beat, and then Tommy scowls, muttering, “Whatever.” He slouches down in his seat and starts scribbling in his notebook furiously, not even attempting to hide his disinterest in the lesson.

Tom stares at him for a second longer then turns back to the front of the class, thinking, _great. Just great._

 

* * *

 

Everyone knows Tommy Conlon. Tom’s only been in Pittsburgh for a few months, and even _he_ knows about Tommy Conlon.

He’s Brendan Conlon’s little brother. He’s the undefeated regional wrestling champion for his weight division and, according to the local paper, the soon-to-be state champion. He’s good looking enough that even girls two grades higher give him second glances (gross – _double_ gross, even).

And he was held back a grade.

That, in and of itself, doesn’t mean anything, Tom knows. One of his best friends back in Jersey, Michael, was held back due to an undiagnosed reading disorder, and he’s one of the smartest people Tom knows.

But being held back _and_ being completely disinterested in class? Bad combination. Tom just _knows_ having Tommy Conlon as his partner means he’s going to have his work cut out for him. However, he’s not going to whine to Ms. Tyler about it.

He watches as three kids try to convince Ms. Tyler to let them swap partners. He watches them all get shot down, and roasted in the heat of Ms. Tyler’s legendary laser beam stare for good measure. Then he shoulders his backpack, gets up, and walks to the back of the classroom. Tommy’s still standing beside his desk, shoving his pens and notebook into his bag without looking up.

“Hey,” Tom says, and he knows he doesn’t quite succeed at hiding his lack of enthusiasm. “So... we should probably organise a time to get started on this project.”

Tommy doesn’t look up right away, which is kind of... weird. And rude. And when he finally does, he stares at some point past Tom’s ear rather than look at Tom directly. “Whenever,” he says flatly. “I don’t care.”

Christ. Yeah, Tom’s _really_ going to have his work cut out for him. He evens out the sour twist of his mouth before suggesting, “We could get started on it after school. Or tonight.”

“I got training after school,” is Tommy’s immediate reply. “But I could do after that.”

Tom waits a little, just in case Tommy decides he wants to show a little initiative in planning. After a few seconds pass, he realises, no, Tommy doesn’t. “...Did you want to come around to my place, or should I go around to yours?”

Tommy lets out an annoyed huff. “Where do you live?”

Well, at least there was some effort _there_. But when Tom writes down his address and hands it to him, Tommy looks at the address, heaves an irritated sigh and says, “Maybe you should just do this project yourself.”

Tom gapes at him. “I— _sorry?_ ”

“You’re smart, you like doing this shit,” Tommy says, waving his hand to encompass the board and Tom – whether he means the class or school in general, Tom doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t _care._

“I don’t cheat,” Tom snaps, mouth thin. “And I don’t help other people cheat either.”

Tommy rolls his eyes at him, like _Tom’s_ being the inconvenient one. What the hell? Just... what the _hell_ , seriously? “ _Fine,_ whatever,” Tommy says. “I’ll be there around 6:30 then, I guess.”

“Fine,” Tom snaps, resisting the urge to scowl or shake his head at Tommy. “I’ll see you then.” He walks off before Tommy can shoot him another irritated glare, already trying to work out how he’s going to make Tommy do his fair share of the work.

 

* * *

 

Tom tells his mom that Tommy will come by sometime around 6:30. It’s honestly embarrassing how _wide_ her smile gets when she hears he’s having someone over. Apparently his loneliness has become so pathetically obvious that even his mom has noticed.

“It’s just for a school project, Mom,” he says, going red and rolling his eyes. His mom swats him with a tea towel, beaming.

“It’s lovely that you’ve invited a friend over,” she says, either ignoring or not noticing the implication that Tommy’s not his friend. But Tom wasn’t friends with the sports jocks back in Jersey, and he’s got no interest in being friends with one here.

Still, at 6:15 he finds himself running up to his room to take a quick look around. It’s not that messy – some of his clothes are piled on the armchair and his sketch pad and pencils are strewn across the floor. Tom spends a few seconds wondering if he should take his band posters down, or hide his CDs, then decides against it. What does it matter if Tommy knows he listens to _The Smiths_ , or _The Jesus and Mary Chain_? The kids at Perry already think Tom’s weird, and Tom doesn’t care what Tommy Conlon thinks of him. Right?

Right.

Just as Tom’s finished convincing himself, there’s a sudden knock at the front door. Tom blinks in surprise – how long has been up here? The knock is followed by a clatter that indicates his mom has put down whatever she’s doing, and the direction of her footsteps is heading toward the _door._ Tom’s whole body seizes up in panic; he bolts for the stairs.

His feet hit the bottom step just as his mom – damn it, _damn it_ – throws the door open with a far too cheerful, far too welcoming: “You must be Tom’s friend Tommy! Come in.”

Tom cringes, expecting Tommy to throw him a disbelieving look, or a smirk that says: _you told her I was your_ friend _?_

But Tommy does neither. Instead, he clears his throat, shuffles his feet and says, “Hi. Uh, yeah. I’m Tommy Conlon. Nice to meet you.” His voice is carefully polite, and he sounds just like Tom does when he’s talking to his grandma or his aunts. Tom stares at him.

“Hey,” he says after a few seconds. He glances at his mom, who’s beaming even wider over Tommy’s manners. “...We’re gonna go up to my room, Mom.”

She smiles indulgently, hands rubbing her belly. “Alright, sweetheart. Off you go. Call me if you need anything.”

Tom assures her that he will, and then he’s leading Tommy upstairs and to his room, still thrown. Once they’re in Tom’s room, Tommy immediately heads to Tom’s desk and flops down into his study chair, limbs sprawling everywhere, perfect manners suddenly gone. “Nice house,” Tommy says, looking around.

Tom glances around as well. The house is older than his home in Margate, but it’s built solidly – polished floorboards, decorative cornices, and pale wainscoting. “I guess,” he says, shrugging. He pushes his dirty laundry off his armchair and sits down, pulling the assignment sheet out from his bag. “Did you take a look at the project yet?”

Tommy looks at him like he’s a moron. “I was at training,” he says slowly. The _duh_ in his voice is evident, and Tom feels his ears go warm. “It’s just a stupid time capsule, anyway,” Tommy continues. “Let’s just pick something easy and do that.”

Tom looks at the assignment again. “We can’t just pick anything. We need to collect things from specific categories. And we have to write letters.”

Tommy slouches down further, expression turning sulky. He starts fiddling with a pen on Tom’s desk. “Fine. Just tell me what to do.” It’s hardly enthusiastic, but it’s definitely a step up from him suggesting Tom do the project on his own.

“We have to write letters to the people who’ll find our time capsule in the future,” Tom says. He pretends to skim over the assignment outline, even though he’d already read it three times on the bus. “We’re supposed to write about our friends and family, our interests, current pop culture—” _oh God,_ “—and news that’s important at the moment. The letter needs to have a proper greeting, introduction, body and conclusion.”

The second he stops talking, Tommy is spurred into movement; he slaps the pen down on the table and sits up, scowling. “God, this is so fucking _dumb,_ ” he says. “What are we even learning?”

Tom bites back the urge to say _weren’t you listening in class?_ or _do you always swear like that?_ He shrugs instead and says, “Time capsules are helpful for archaeologists and historians to understand past ages. We’re supposed to work out what kind of stuff could help people in the future understand our society.” He fiddles with his shoelace, not looking up at Tommy. “I guess the point is for us to analyse what represents our current culture.”

“But _why?_ We’re never gonna use any of that stuff.”

Tom’s brow furrows. His mom and dad always told him that seeking knowledge for its own sake was worthwhile. He’s not quite sure what to say to Tommy’s implication that knowledge without application is useless.

His non-response seems to make Tommy sigh. “Okay,” He says, pulling out his notebook. “What news stuff should I be writing about?”

Tom gives him an uncertain look. Is Tommy trying another strategy to get out of work again? “Well... what did you see on the news last night?” He says finally.

Tommy snorts. “You joking?”

“...No?”

“I don’t watch the news,” Tommy says, staring. “Do _you_ watch the news?”

“Well... yes? I— Yes.” Tom says, feeling slightly defensive. “What’s so weird about watching the news?”

“It’s weird. And boring,” Tommy replies. “Does your mom make you watch it?”

Tom looks away. “...My dad did,” he says. “He says it’s important to know what’s going on in the world. But nowadays I just... do it on my own.” He frowns down at his notebook.

He wonders if his dad still sits down to watch the news at six o’clock every evening. He wonders why his dad hasn’t called, even though Tom had mailed their new address and phone number to him. He wonders if his dad misses him.

“Huh.”

Tom looks up and sees Tommy peering at him curiously.

“I’ll grab my neighbour’s newspaper tomorrow and find something,” Tommy says. It’s the most effort he’s put in so far, and Tom smiles.

They write in near-silence for fifteen minutes. Tom fills three-quarters of a page talking about his family – scattered across New Jersey, Pennsylvania and California now – and his interests. But when he hits pop culture, he draws a blank. He scribbles down a line about Street Fighter because he at least _knows_ what that is then stops. He looks over at Tommy awkwardly. “...What movies are out now?”

Tommy doesn’t seem to notice his awkward tone. “Uh, I dunno?” He says absently, chewing on the end of his pen. He thinks for a moment then says, “ _Ace Ventura._ My brother wants to see that.”

Tom writes that down dutifully then asks, “What about TV shows? _The X-Files_ counts, right?”

“I don’t watch TV,” Tommy says. Tom stares at him. “I guess it counts,” Tommy adds, like he hasn’t said anything weird _at all._ “I hear other guys talking about it.”

“You don’t watch TV?” Tom asks, still staring. “But... what do you do then? Like, in your spare time?”

Tommy shrugs, writing slowly. “Train. Sleep. Homework.”

 _That’s not what you do in your_ spare _time,_ Tom starts to say, before something stops him. “Well... okay,” he says instead. “But what about on weekends?”

“I told you. I train.”

 _What the hell?_ Tom thinks.

Tommy looks up at him, frowning in confusion. “Sometimes I run around with my brother. Why? What do you do?”

“Normal stuff,” Tom says, feeling as confused as Tommy looks. “I watch TV. I take guitar lessons. I go to art class.” _Oh God, that sounds really girly._ “Sometimes I play soccer,” he adds quickly. He hesitates for a second then says, “You train _every day?_ ”

Tommy’s puzzlement shifts into defensiveness. “I’m— I’m training for State,” he says, fiddling with the pen cap. “It’s important not to slack.”

Tom blinks. Huh. It’s far more dedication than he would’ve attributed to a jock; Perry’s football and basketball teams don’t train nearly half as hard. He tilts his head, looking at Tommy thoughtfully, and says, “I suppose so. It’s just— I don’t know. Your schedule seems kind of harsh. Don’t you need time to relax?”

That gets Tommy frowning down hard at his notepad. “Do we need to talk about music?” He asks, changing the subject abruptly. Tom blinks but let’s it go. It’s none of his business, really.

“I’d say we have to. It counts as pop culture after all.” He grins. “At least that’s easier.”

Tommy grins back. “Thank God for radio, huh?” He says.

Tom quirks an eyebrow; he’d actually meant his CDs, but that too, he supposes. “We can go downstairs to listen to the radio,” he says. “Or I can bring the stereo up here?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Music would be good, I guess.”

“I’ll go get it,” Tom says, hopping up. He’s almost at the door before his manners – carefully instilled in him by his mom and his grandma – reassert themselves. “Uh. Sorry,” he says, turning back. “Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

Tommy perks up. “You got celery? Or carrot sticks?”

 _Seriously?_ Tom grins in disbelief. “Oh, man. My mom’s going to love you. You want hummus with it?”

“...What’s that?”

“It’s a dip. Made from chickpeas. And olive oil. And...” Tom draws a blank. “And some other stuff.”

Tommy nods. “Yeah, okay. That’d be good, thanks.”

Tom nods back at him and ducks out. He clatters down to the living room to collect the stereo before going to find his mom. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter, writing something out on a yellow legal pad and frowning in concentration. But she looks up and smiles immediately when he comes in. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Tom says, and it’s nice to not even be lying about it. “Tommy’s hungry, though. Can he have some celery and carrot sticks?”

His mom’s eyebrows go up. “You could do with following your friend’s example,” she says, getting up and going to the fridge. Tom doesn’t bother trying to correct her again, but he rolls his eyes. She misinterprets the reason why. “Eating carrots and celery instead of Doritos once in a while won’t kill you, sweetie,” she says, as she cuts the vegetables into strips.

Tom makes a face. His mom laughs at him, and it’s nice to hear her laugh again. She hands him the plate, a bowl of hummus balanced in the middle, and offers her cheek for a kiss. Tom gives her one. Then he juggles the stereo over to one hand and takes both it and the plate up to his room.

He hands the plate to Tommy – who looks at the hummus with equal parts curiosity and doubt – then turns to plug the stereo in. When he turns back, Tommy seems to have gotten over his doubt and is eating with gusto. “Man,” Tommy says in between bites. “Sometimes all I really want is some fucking French fries.”

Tom can’t help but wince at the casual swearing, but he rallies enough to say, “So why not have some? And then work it off or something? I see the guys on the football team eating crap all the time.”

There’s a weird beat, and then Tommy says, “My coach is a hard ass about that kinda stuff. I gotta stick to the diet.”

“Wow.” Tom stares at Tommy, genuinely impressed. “You really want to get to State, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Tommy says, and the excitement lighting his eyes changes his face. “State, then Nationals.” He shoves the last of the hummus and celery into his mouth then pushes the plate away, saying, “Thanks for that, man. I needed it.”

Tom waves him off, smiling. “Thank my mom. I think she’s hoping I’ll copy you.”

“Don’t do it,” Tommy says quickly. “Keep eating junk.”

Tom grins and gives him a mock-salute. “You don’t need to tell me twice.” Tommy grins back at him.

They work in near silence for the next two hours, but the silence is comfortable and companionable this time. They only interrupt one another to figure out what song had just finished playing on the radio, or to check if a sentence sounds weird. It’s the closest Tom’s gotten to his old life in months, and it’s... nice. It feels nice.

He looks over at Tommy, mouth open to ask if Tommy maybe wants to take a break or something, when Tommy sits up abruptly. His eyes are wide as he stares at the clock.

“Oh _shit,_ ” he breathes, slapping his books closed hurriedly. “I— I gotta go. The last bus is coming soon.”

“Oh,” Tom says, heart sinking a little in disappointment, even as his eyebrows go up at Tommy’s rush. He moves to help him pack. “Are you sure going to make it?” He asks, glancing at the clock dubiously. “I can ask my mom or Martin to drop you off if—”

“ _No,_ ” Tommy cuts in quickly, voice sharp. He takes a breath then says, in a more normal tone, “No, I can make it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” He jerks his bag closed, and then he’s on his feet, dashing out the door before Tom can say another word.

Tom stares after him; he hears Tommy call out _see you later Mrs. Hansen, thanks for the food_ , followed by the slam of the front door. He gets up and moves to the window, peering out. It’s dark, but he can still see Tommy sprinting down the street like there’s something’s after him. Tom frowns, puzzled.

“Your friend left in a hurry,” his mom says suddenly, from the doorway. Tom jumps and whirls around. “Didn’t you ask him to stay for dinner like I told you to?”

“Did I—? _No,_ Mom,” Tom sighs. His exasperation with his mother – frequent and familiar – quickly eclipses his confusion over Tommy’s abrupt exit. “You didn’t tell me to ask him.”

“Oh,” is all his mom says. She’s well aware of how absent minded she is. She blinks for a moment then shrugs. “Well, next time he’s over, ask him to stay for dinner, alright?”

“Sure, Mom,” Tom says, nodding. “Next time.”

 

* * *

 

The next time Tom sees Tommy is fourth period English, the following day.

Tom’s already in his seat, ignoring the chattering students around him, when Tommy slinks into the classroom. His head is bowed, but Tom can still see his split lip and the bruise on his jaw, purple and ugly.

Tom gapes at him. “Holy crap,” he breathes, snagging Tommy by the sleeve as he walks by. “What happened?”

Tommy looks down at him and makes a face, fingering the bruise lightly. “I tripped and fell on my fucking face as I was getting off the bus.”

“Oh. Okay.” Tom gnaws at his lip, uncertain. “...Did you want to work on the time capsule a little more after school?”

Tommy shifts from foot to foot. “I... um. I can’t stay out that late after school anymore,” he mumbles. “You free at lunch?”

“Well... yeah, I guess so,” Tom says, unwilling to admit that he’s pretty much always free. “We won’t have as much time, but I suppose we can collect the items separately and sort through them at lunch over the next couple of days.” He peers up at Tommy, squinting at the blood red scab marring his lower lip.

Tommy smirks slightly. “I got something between my teeth?”

Tom shakes his head. “No, it’s just— that looks painful.” He gestures at his own mouth vaguely. Tommy shrugs and sits down at the table beside Tom’s, even though Tom’s sitting in the middle row, not in the back like Tommy tends to. Tom blinks at him, surprised.

“It’s what I get for being a dumb ass,” Tommy says, pointing at his split lip.

“...Tripping over makes you a dumb ass?” Tom asks dubiously.

“Tripping off _a bus_ does, yeah.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got bizarre standards for intelligence,” he says. That pulls a laugh out of Tommy.

“You eat a dictionary every day for breakfast or something?” Tommy asks, seemingly not caring that his smile is threatening to re-split his lip.

“What?” Tom says, starting to smile back. “They’re not unusual words. They’re perfectly reasonable. Conventional, even.”

Tommy laughs again, leaning back in his seat. “You’re funny, man.”

Tom’s smiles widens, incredulous and pleased in equal measure. “...You’re not exactly what I expected,” he says.

The grin he gets from Tommy in response is the best thing to happen to him in months.

 

* * *

 

Over the next week and a half, Tommy and Tom sit together every day at lunch to work on their project. It’s not a hard project, but it takes them close to a fortnight because they spend only half that time actually working.

Tom learns that Tommy idolises Rocky, has never been further west than Michigan, and is kind of terrible at spelling. Tommy learns that Tom is from New Jersey, enjoys drawing and playing guitar, and is a stickler for grammar. Tom tells him he’s not entirely sure he wants to be an older brother. Tommy tells him that he really doesn’t like Brendan sometimes. Weirdly, Tom finds that comforting. Like it’s okay for him not to be one hundred percent enthusiastic about his mom’s pregnancy.

They have conflicting opinions on what constitutes a good movie, and their tastes in music don’t align much either. They have barely anything in common, save for two things: they’re both somewhat out of touch with mainstream pop culture, and they can consistently make one another laugh.

They hand their project in a week later and they get a good grade on it, to Tom’s satisfaction. But they don’t stop sitting together.

 

* * *

 

“What’s a seven letter word that means ‘chatters endlessly’?”

“Your mom.”

Tom laughs. “Ass.”

“No, seriously,” Tommy says, eyes wide with false earnestness. “Y-O-U-R M-O-M. Seven letters.”

“That’s two words, not one. Also, my mom is awesome and I’m going to kick your ass for that.”

“Bring it, Hansen.”

 

* * *

 

“This movie is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen,” Tommy says, one hour into _The Graduate._

“ _You’re_ the gayest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Come over here and say that,” is Tommy’s instant reply.

“Alright.” Tom stops the video and tosses the remote aside.

“Are you serious?” Tommy says. “I’ll flatten you.” But he’s already grinning and getting his arms up, ready to pin Tom to the floor.

They knock into Tom’s desk as they mock-wrestle, sending all of his books crashing to the floor.

“ _What was that?_ ” His mom calls from downstairs.

“Nothing!” They call back in unison.

 

* * *

 

“Mr. Conlon. Mr. Hansen.”

Tom sits up straighter in his seat and gives Mr. Morecambe his best innocent stare. One row ahead and one aisle over, Tommy turns to face their English teacher and does the same.

Mr. Morecambe isn’t fooled. “Minds on the lesson, gentlemen.”

“Right,” Tom says. “Sorry, sir.”

When Mr. Morecambe turns away, Tommy looks over his shoulder again and mouths _kiss ass_. Tom rolls his eyes at him.

Five minutes later, he tosses a scrap of paper that bounces off Tommy’s head and lands on his notebook. Tommy sweeps it into his lap surreptitiously and unfolds it beneath his desk. The drawing makes him burst out laughing.

Mr. Morecambe gives both of them detention.

 

* * *

 

**Winter, 1994**

_“Whoa,_ look out!”

That’s all the warning Tom gets before two juniors, roughhousing in the halls, careen straight into him, slamming him against the lockers. All the breath punches out of him, and Tom slides to the ground along with his dropped books, stunned.

“Jesus, assholes,” Tom hears someone say with laughter in their voice. “Keep an eye out for the little people, huh?”

He doesn’t look up; he’s too busy sucking air back into his lungs, and trying to rescue his textbook before it’s trampled by the stampede heading to the cafeteria.

Then someone reaches out to snag his textbook and haul him up by the shoulder simultaneously. Tom looks up to thank his kind-of rescuer, and ends up meets the grinning face of one Brendan Conlon.

Tom gapes.

“You alright, Tom?” Brendan asks. He looks past Tom’s shoulder and waves off the guys who’d run into Tom, saying breezily, “I’ll catch you guys later.”

Tom keeps gaping.

Brendan raises his eyebrows at him, smile fading a little. He starts patting Tom lightly on the shoulders and back, like he’s checking for injuries. “Shit, you okay? Did you hit your head?”

“I’m fine,” Tom forces himself to say. “It’s just... I just— _you know who I am?_ ” He asks, astonished. He knows he probably sounds like a complete idiot, but what the hell? _Brendan Conlon_ is aware of his existence.

Brendan laughs, casual and familiar. “Sure I know who you are. You’re my little brother’s best friend with the exact same name.”

Tom stares some more. _Tommy talks about me? To_ you _?_ wars with _‘’m his best friend?_ for top spot in the Things Tom Hansen Hadn’t Expected to Ask Awards.

He needs to stop gaping at Brendan, he realises. He needs to say something. Something funny. Or clever. Or not dumb, at the very least. “Thanks for the rescue,” he says finally. _Okay, not brilliant, but not hopeless either._

“No problem,” Brendan says. He turns Tom by the shoulder, orienting him toward the cafeteria, and pats him on the back again. “Watch out for those human bumper cars,” he adds with a grin, before melting away into the crowd.

Stephanie McCray, one of the prettier girls in Tom’s grade, stops beside Tom. A few other kids also look back at him as they pass. It’s the most attention Tom’s been paid since those first few weeks at Perry, and he’s not quite sure how he feels about it.

“You known Brendan?” Stephanie asks. She sounds decidedly impressed.

“...I think it’s more like he knows me,” Tom says blankly, still staring at the space Brendan had occupied. He doesn’t realise his words could’ve been interpreted differently until Stephanie laughs, nose wrinkling cutely.

“That was funny,” she says. “You’re funny.”

Tom gives her a half-smile, unwilling to admit he hadn’t meant it that way. “Thanks?”

Stephanie flashes him a sweet smile, lips shiny with lip gloss, and Tom’s momentarily dazzled.

“You’re from New Jersey, right?” She asks.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I am,” he says, trying not to swallow his own tongue. Going from talking to Brendan Conlon straight to Stephanie McCray shouldn’t happen. At least, not without warning.

“That’s cool,” Stephanie says. “My brother went to Atlantic City after he graduated, he said it was awesome.”

“Yeah. Uh, yeah, it is,” Tom says, even though he’s pretty sure Stephanie’s brother, now in his sophomore year at U Pitt, was taking in sights Tom’s definitely too young to see. “Um, I lived in Margate. It’s about twenty minutes away from Atlantic City.”

She looks at him for a second longer, still smiling prettily. She seems to be waiting for something. Tom has no idea what. But after a beat, she tilts her head and says, “Well... I guess I’ll see you in French class this afternoon?”

“Right,” Tom says, nodding and trying not to turn red. She flashes him another smile then walks off to join her friends further down the hall. Tom watches the swing of her skirt for a few seconds, then turns and heads for the cafeteria; Tommy’s probably waiting.

 

* * *

 

Following his run in (literal and figurative) with Brendan, more people start talking to Tom.

It should be irritating, that he’s apparently only worth talking to after being touched by the glow of Brendan Conlon’s popularity. But Tom’s no longer miserable about his move, so he lets it slide. This time around, he makes an effort to pay attention to current fads, and ensures he doesn’t talk too much about the stuff that really interests him; the conversations that arise are fun, easy.

But no one’s as fun or as easy to talk to as Tommy.

Tommy doesn’t care that Tom prefers _Morrissey_ and _Joy Division_ to whatever’s charting in the Top 40, and Tom doesn’t care that Tommy’s passionate about wrestling to the point of excluding other interests.

They spend as much time together as Tommy’s training regimen and Tom’s after-school activities allow, which isn’t as much as they’d like. But it’s still enough for their edges to blend, bleeding into one another like a watercolour painting of traits, habits and mannerisms.

Tommy starts paying more attention during class – or at least he does in the classes he shares with Tom. He reads and watches things that don’t have anything to do with school. Tom keeps his eye on wrestling scores, learns to play video games, and starts eating carrots, which amuses his mom to no end. He also picks up Tommy’s casual swearing habit, which amuses her far less.

She still absolutely loves Tommy, though.

“Looks like the baby’s going to have two brothers, not one,” she says when she comes across them in the living room, elbowing one another as they play _Sonic 3_. Tom pulls a face, but Tommy just grins, happy and pleased.

They hang out at Tom’s house when they’re both free; ostensibly to do homework, but mainly playing video games or watching TV (Tom insists that Tommy learn to watch TV). They _only_ hang out at Tom’s house. Tommy says his dad does shift work and sometimes sleeps in the afternoons; they’d be disturbing him if they hung out at Tommy’s place. Tom doesn’t question it, and he doesn’t mind.

What he _does_ mind, though, is that Tommy almost always drags his feet when Tom suggests going somewhere other than his house.

“You want to go to the movies tomorrow after school?” Tom asks when they pause in quizzing one another on _Romeo and Juliet_.

Tommy stops chewing on the end of his pen and looks over at him. “I can’t,” he says slowly. “I’ve got training.”

Tom’s forehead crinkles. “At night then?”

“I have training until six every day, man,” Tommy says. “You know that. All I wanna do after that is eat and sleep.”

“Yeah, but you’re hanging out here today,” Tom points out. He sits up as an idea strikes him. “What if we go now? That way you won’t be missing two days of training.” He understands how important training is to Tommy, even if he thinks it’s excessive.

Tommy glances at the clock. 6:43. “I can’t,” he says again. He leans over and flips his textbook closed, frowning. “I gotta go.”

Tom throws himself back in his chair, sighing loudly. “Yeah, okay. You want my mom to drop you off?”

“I’m good,” Tommy says, like he always does.

Tom has no idea why Tommy is always so resistant; it’d be easier if they dropped Tommy off, and Tommy wouldn’t have to pay bus fare, or stand in the cold while waiting for the bus. But Tom always caves in the face of Tommy’s stubbornness, and he decides to chalk it up as just another one of Tommy’s quirks. “I’ll walk with you to the bus,” he says, getting up.

“You’ll freeze your scrawny ass off walking back,” Tommy says, but he doesn’t tell Tom ‘no’.

Tom rolls his eyes at him. “I’ll wear a scarf, mother.”

“A scarf isn’t going to stop your ass from freezing.”

“I’ll wrap the scarf around my ass then.”

Tommy snorts and shoves Tom’s head playfully as they make their way out the door.

 

* * *

 

**Spring, 1995**

Even though he settles into life in Pittsburgh – even though he’s _happy_ – there are moments when Tom misses his old life so badly it stops him in his tracks.

Random things make him homesick (and does it still count as being homesick if he thinks of Pittsburgh as home now?). Like when he walks in on his mom and Martin in the kitchen, laughing as she tries to teach him how to make latkes, even though she can’t cook worth beans. It makes him miss his _bubbe_ – his dad’s mom – who’d made the best latkes.

Or like when they study the Gettysburg Address, which Tom had already studied in the eighth grade. It reminds him of his friends in Margate, and how infrequently he talks to them nowadays, whereas they used to talk every day.

Or like when everyone start talking about where they’re going to go when the school year is over.

Tom knows where he’d be going if he still lived in Jersey. His dad would drive them up to Cranbury in the first week, to visit Tom’s grandparents on his dad’s side. Then they’d go south again, to Atlantic City or Ocean City, where most of Tom’s friends would be vacationing too, unless Dad decided they were going overseas.

He’s not going to Atlantic City or Ocean City this year, though. His mom is eight months pregnant, tired all the time, and his dad still (still, _still_ ) hasn’t called them.

Tom tries not to think about it.

But sometimes he thinks about the beach, and the pier, and the summer sun; about running along sunbaked sand beneath clear blue skies, and the taste of ocean salt on the breeze. It’s at those times that Pittsburgh’s landlocked geography practically drives him insane. It’s _claustrophobic_. Tom doesn’t know how Tommy can stand it.

“I miss the beach,” he blurts out one day at lunch.

Tommy looks at him. His mouth is stuffed full of sandwich, but he talks anyway. “Wha’ beach?”

Tom wrinkles his nose, half-smiling. “God, man. Swallow _then_ talk.” He pushes the remains of his lunch around on his tray for a while before saying, “I don’t know. I just miss beaches in general. There are beaches everywhere in Jersey. I miss being able to just catch a bus down to the beach. Or going down to the pier.”

Tommy chews thoughtfully and (thankfully) swallows before saying, “You could go to Lake Erie. It’s about two hours away from here.”

Tom sighs and rests his chin on his hand. “I guess. It’s not really the same as going to a beach, though. And two hours is a seriously long time.” He drums his fingers absently on the table for a while before glancing at Tommy. He tries not to look too hopeful, considering Tommy’s standard response to his invitations out is _I can’t,_ ninety eight percent of the time. But the restlessness in him spurs him on: “If I go, do you— I dunno... d’you want to come with?”

Tommy doesn’t answer straight away. Tom plays with the crust of his pizza rather than look at him. “I—” Tommy starts, before stopping. He’s silent for another half minute. “What day?” He asks finally.

Tom looks up. He can feel the smile already tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Saturday? Weekend’s probably best. We’ll need the whole day since the bus ride will be so long.” He thinks for a second. “Or I could get Martin to drive us.” His first preference is his mom, not Martin. But his mom’s pregnant belly is huge now, and she needs to pee practically every fifteen minutes. A two hour drive to Lake Erie would take half the day.

Tommy chews on his thumbnail for a second. “...I’ll ask my dad,” he says.

Tom beams at him. “Great! This’ll be great!” He pauses. “What’s at Erie?”

 

* * *

 

Tom’s standing at his locker before first period, trying to dig out his French textbook, when Tommy appears beside him, grinning.

“Hey,” Tom says, smiling at him. “You’re happy.”

“Yep.” Tommy punches him lightly in the shoulder. “We’re on for Saturday.” He reaches into Tom’s locker, tugs the textbook free, and hands it to Tom with a smirk.

“Seriously?” Tom says, accepting the textbook with a grin. “That’s awesome!” He slaps his locker shut and starts making his way down the hall. Tommy falls into step with him.

“So I asked Janice – you know Janice, from my French class? – about swimming in Erie,” Tom says. “She nearly puked.” He screws his face up. “That might just be Janice, though. She’s this complete girly girl. But she said there’s a theme park. We should go to the theme park. I haven’t been on a roller coaster in _ages_.” Tom grins at Tommy gleefully.

Weirdly, Tommy’s face falls. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, there’s Waldameer.”

Tom’s eyebrows go up. “...Don’t like roller coasters?”

“No, no. I do. It’s just. Things are kind of. Tight. This month,” Tommy says, sounding like each word physically pains him. His eyes are trained on his feet, and Tom thinks Tommy would be fidgeting if they weren’t walking.

“Oh.” Tom thinks for a second. He knows Tommy’s family doesn’t have as much money as his, but it’s never occurred to him how big the difference might be. He shrugs after while. “Well, it should be fine. My mom will probably just pay for you anyway.” He grins. “You know how much she loves you. All healthy eating and clean living.”

Tommy’s face darkens. “I don’t need your mom to pay for me.”

“Why not? Knowing my mom, she’ll insist. And you just said things are kind of tight, so...” Tom shrugs again. “It works out, right?”

“I can get the money,” Tommy says. “Don’t worry about it.” He doesn’t quite snap the words out, but it’s a near thing.

Tom looks at him uncertainly. The good mood about Lake Erie seems to be vanishing rapidly, and Tom desperately doesn’t want it to. Tommy hardly ever says yes to his invitations to go places; Tom doesn’t want him to regret saying yes to this one.

“Okay,” he says finally. “If you’re sure.” There’s an awkward beat before he decides to switch the subject. “So is Lake Erie actually that disgusting, or is it just Janice being a girl?”

Tommy snorts. “Some parts are pretty gross, but you can swim in it fine. It’s not a swamp.”

Tom nods. “One day, though. One day you’re going to take a whole week off training, and we’re going to Stone Harbor or Ocean City, or something. We’re going to go swim at an _actual_ _beach._ ” He’s only half-joking.

Tommy laughs. “Maybe when I win State.”

Tom snaps his fingers. “Perfect. Then it’s a deal. You win State, we go to the Jersey Shore.” He starts walking backwards and holds his hand out to Tommy for a handshake; he just narrowly avoids bumping into people.

Tommy shakes his hand, smirking. “Deal, you dork.” He yanks Tom in by the arm and slings his arm around Tom’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s go to class.”

 

* * *

 

In his last week of school, Tom wakes up to the realisation that something is off.

The house is dead silent. He can’t hear him mom moving around in the bedroom or the living room, or Martin making coffee down in the kitchen. Tom gets out of bed and wanders slowly from room to room. No one’s home.

They’ve gone to the hospital. It’s the most logical conclusion. But it’s— it’s unsettling. Disconcerting.

Why hadn’t they woken him up? Is something wrong with the baby? With his _mom_? Tom’s stomach clenches. He takes a few deep breaths and forces himself to think things through. Of course they hadn’t woken him up. Why would they? What use would he be in the delivery room?

But he’s her son. He should be there, shouldn’t he?

Tom stands alone in the eerie quiet of the kitchen, biting his lip uncertainly. Before he can stop it, the thought rises up and creeps over him: _What if Martin hadn’t wanted him there?_

...No, that’s stupid. Martin’s never been anything but nice to Tom.

They were just in a hurry, Tom tells himself, and he only turned fourteen a few months ago; he knows nothing about babies or delivering babies. Waking him up would’ve just wasted time.

Semi-reassured now, but still somewhat at a loss (what should he do? Stay at home? Go to school? Wait for someone?),Tom goes upstairs to have a shower and get dressed.

When he walks back downstairs, someone’s knocking on the door. It sounds like they’ve been knocking for a while. Tom opens the door and Mr. Thieroff is standing there, smiling at him.

“Uh, hi, Mr. Thieroff?”

“Your father called from the hospital,” Mr. Thieroff says, and Tom’s heart soars until he realises Mr. Thieroff is talking about Martin. “He said you don’t have to go to school if you don’t want to. He’ll come by this afternoon to take you to see your mother and the baby.”

“Mom had the baby already?”

“Not yet, but soon enough, I’d say. Do you want to wait here for your father?”

Tom can barely hide his grimace. Sit around and wait for Martin to take him to see the baby (Martin’s _real_ kid, an insidious part of him whispers)? No thanks.

“No, I— I think it’d be better if I just went to school. I’d just be doing nothing here.”

Mr. Thieroff nods approvingly. “That’s good. Responsible. You’ll be a good big brother.”

Tom smiles weakly.

 

* * *

 

He misses his regular bus. By the time he gets to school, checks in at the attendance office, and gets a pass, second period is well underway.

He slides into Social Studies and hands the note to Ms. Tyler. She takes it with barely a glance – Tom’s not a problem student – and continues with her lecture.

Tom walks to the fourth row and drops into the empty seat beside Tommy. Tommy gives him a worried look, but Tom can’t find it in him to give him a reassuring smile. When Ms. Tyler turns to the board, Tommy flicks a note onto Tom’s desk. Tom palms it and glances at it.

 _What’s wrong? Your never late,_ the note reads, in Tommy’s sloppy handwriting.

 _Mom’s having the baby,_ Tom writes back. He corrects the ‘your’ to ‘you’re’ before passing it back.

Tommy frowns when he reads the note then gives Tom a sympathetic look. And Tom knows he understands, even though he’s the younger Conlon brother, because Tommy always understands him.

When the bell rings and everyone gets up in a cacophony of chatter and chairs scraping against linoleum, Tom snags Tommy by the sleeve. “Martin’s picking me up from my place after school. To go to the hospital. Do you want to come with me?” _Please come with me,_ is what he’s really saying.

Tommy looks at him for a second, expression thoughtful, and then he nods.

 

* * *

 

When Tom’s mom sees him walk in with Tommy in tow, she bursts out laughing. Martin goes to her immediately, smiling down at the cloth-wrapped bundle cradled in her arms. Tom eyes it warily.

His mom beams at him and Tommy both then beckons Tom closer. Tom hesitates, dithering at the end of the bed, until Tommy puts a hand in the middle of his back and pushes him forward. Tom scowls at him, but edges forward until he’s standing at his mom’s bedside.

Martin claps a warm hand down on his shoulder, and his mom smiles at him. She’s smiling with that huge, wide smile that Tom inherited, and she tilts the bundle toward him gently. “This is your sister, sweetheart,” she says. “Her name’s Rachel.”

Tom stares down at the bundle, at the wrinkled pink face swaddled in cloths.

It – _Rachel,_ he corrects himself, _her name is Rachel_ – is tiny. _Unbelievably_ tiny. Looking at her now – at the small, pink, _fragile_ reality of her – it’s hard to imagine she could ever be big enough to replace him. And with his mom beaming at him, and Martin’s hand on his shoulder, and Tommy standing at his back, it’s hard to imagine he could ever be left unloved.

 _This is Rachel,_ he says to himself. _And she’s_ your _little sister._

Tom thinks he falls a little bit in love.

“Hi Rachel,” he says, voice just above a whisper. “I’m Tom. I guess I’m your brother.”

Rachel yawns and wriggles sleepily in her cocoon of cotton and wool; Tom grins. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mom beckon again. Tom doesn’t look up until Tommy’s standing beside him, peering down curiously at Rachel too. He grabs Tommy’s arm then, and turns back to Rachel.

“And this is Tommy,” he tells her. “He’s kind of going to be your brother, too.”


	2. Summer, 1995 - Autumn, 1995

**Summer, 1995**

Just as he’d predicted, Tom doesn’t go to New Jersey for summer vacation.

He doesn’t go _anywhere_ , actually, for the first time in years. Rachel is barely over a month old, and his mom and Martin decide travelling at this point will only be more hassle than it’s worth. There’s some talk of maybe sending Tom alone to California, to stay with his Aunt Judith, and his cousins Eli and Bethany. However, it turns out Aunt Judith won’t be in California for most of the summer, so that plan gets cancelled too.

To his surprise, Tom finds he doesn’t mind that much. He’s never gotten to see what a town looks like when half its population vanishes. It’s a little creepy, but also kind of cool because he gets to pretends he’s a survivor of a zombie apocalypse.

When Tom tells Tommy about his zombie apocalypse daydream, Tommy shakes his head with mock-sorrow and says, “You’re such a dork. And the ‘Burgh’s already full of zombies.” He sends a pointed look across the street, where Damian McAllister and Suzie Carrick – two soon-to-be seniors at Perry – are standing together, giggling at nothing, clearly high.

“Point taken,” Tom says.

They watch Damian and Suzie for a few more seconds, before Tommy makes a thoughtful sound and says, “I think your house would be better as a hideout. We can booby trap downstairs and live upstairs. Plus it’s on a hill, so we’d see any zombies coming.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon working out their zombie apocalypse survival plan.

Now that school isn’t getting in the way, it’s easier for them to hang out. They see each other almost every day, at least for a few hours, either before Tommy has training or after.

One afternoon, they go to the movie theater and buy tickets for a kids’ movie, but only so Tommy can sneak them in to watch _Die Hard 3_. Afterwards, Tommy declares the movie to be awesome. Tom thinks it’s terrible, but the thrill of sneaking into an R-rated film makes him hold his tongue.

However, a week later, he presents Tommy with Martin’s VHS copy of _Pulp Fiction,_ and tells him: “I’m going to show you what a _good_ movie with Bruce Willis and Samuel L. Jackson looks like.”

 

* * *

 

If they’re not running around Pittsburgh together, Tom and Tommy bunker down at Tom’s house. They play video games, read, or just talk. But all of that comes to a screeching halt whenever Rachel is awake.

She’s just shy of three months, and she’s much, _much_ cuter. There’s chubby baby fat on her now, erasing the alien, newborn baby look, and Tom’s not sure which one of them is more fascinated with her: him or Tommy.

They both learn how to hold her, how to bottle feed her, and (somewhat reluctantly) how to change her diaper. Tom’s the one who calms her down faster when she’s bawling, and he has a far easier time getting her to sleep. However, Tommy’s the one who makes Rachel smile and laugh more consistently, and Tom sometimes has to tell himself _not_ to sulk over it.

But, most of the time, he just thinks it’s funny watching the way Tommy acts around Rachel.

When Rachel’s gains enough motor control to lift her head and push herself up on her arms, Tommy acts like it the best thing ever. He does push-ups beside her, eliciting baby-drool smiles, and more determined pushes from Rachel. When he holds up a toy for her to grab and she bats at it with a fist instead, Tommy nods approvingly. And the first time Rachel grabs a toy – a pastel blue stuffed elephant – and rolls on top of it, Tommy declares he’s going to teach Rachel to wrestle when she’s older.

It’s fun. Rachel is fun, and Tommy is fun. During the day, there are too many things to do, and Tom doesn’t have to think too hard about— anything.

It’s only at night – after Tommy’s gone home, and Tom’s mom and Martin are busy with Rachel – that Tom sometimes stops and thinks about his dad. It’s at those times that he misses him, and the ache in his chest makes his throat tighten and his eyes grow hot.

He writes a letter to his dad during one such spell of melancholy. He tells him that he’s doing well at school, that he has a best friend named Tommy, and that he’s still determined to become an architect like _zayde_ – grandpa – was. He hesitates for a minute then writes about Rachel.

He posts the letter the next day, before he loses his nerve, then spends the next three weeks waiting.

His dad doesn’t write back.

 

* * *

 

In mid-August, Tom’s mom signs him up for a week-long day camp.

At age fourteen, being sent to day camp should be embarrassing. But the camp turns out to be an art and animation camp, hosted by Point Park University. Tom gets to spends hours drawing, which is awesome. It’s not _quite_ the type of drawing he wants to do when he grows up, but the camp is still pretty awesome.

It becomes even more awesome when he realises Stephanie McCray is attending too.

They pair up for the movement animation project, and Tom makes her laugh when he models the Snoopy dance for her to draw (and he’s embarrassingly distracted when she jumps around trying to do the same for him).

On the last day of camp, Tom does the gentlemanly thing and gives her the flipbook animation they produced together. When she kisses him on the cheek in thanks, Tom drops his backpack painfully onto his foot.

 

* * *

 

**Autumn, 1995**

Tenth grade starts with little fanfare. Tom and Tommy are placed together in homeroom, much to their mutual satisfaction. Even better, their homeroom teacher – Mr. Pettifer – is incredibly lax. Each morning, the second he’s done taking attendance, the class explodes into chatter, the volume escalating to near deafening levels. Tom and Tommy just shove their desks closer together and commentate on the madness.

Stephanie ends up in their homeroom too. But she sits on the other side of the room with two of her friends, so Tom’s rarely distracted.

Well, only occasionally distracted.

...Okay, maybe he’s sometimes distracted.

Today, Stephanie laughs at something, her voice light and clear, and Tom looks over immediately.

He can still hear Tommy telling his story about Brendan – how Brendan had walked into a tree because he was too busy staring at his new girlfriend, Tess – but Tom’s only half paying attention. He spends a few heart-thumping seconds taking in the way Stephanie tips her head back as she laughs; he takes in the line of her throat, the curve of her breasts, and the swing of her long, dark hair. Then he looks away.

The instant he meets Tommy’s eyes, Tommy smirks. “Yeah, the look on your face right now? Exactly the same as Bren’s, right before he walked into that tree.”

Tom turns bright red.

Tommy just snickers, and Tom shoves his shoulder, trapped somewhere between mortification and amusement. Tommy shoves him back, snickering louder.

They wind up accidentally shunting Tom’s table aside as they wrestle; Tommy traps Tom in a headlock, and Tom tries to dig his elbow into his ribs in retaliation. They’re both laughing breathlessly before Mr. Pettifer finally tells them to knock it off.

When Tom glances over at Stephanie again, she’s watching them and smiling.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few weeks, Tom notices that Stephanie looks at them a lot during homeroom.

It makes his skin prickle hotly and his heart beat harder, even as his stomach plummets in despair. Because he’s pretty sure he’s not the one Stephanie’s looking at. Why would she, when Tommy’s sitting right beside him?

Tommy’s the same height as Tom, but he’s at least twenty pounds heavier with muscle. He’s starting to look like, well... like a _man_ , whereas Tom still gets mistaken for a middle schooler sometimes. Girls cluster together and giggle when Tommy walks past, and some of them have started manoeuvring to sit near him in class.

Tommy doesn’t seem to care much about the attention at all; he seems almost irritated by it sometimes. But there are still days when Tom wants to grab him by the arm and say: _hey, mind toning it down a little so the rest of us plebs have a chance?_

And then he feels like an asshole, because it’s not like Tommy _asked_ to be born good looking, or Brendan’s little brother, or insanely talented at wrestling. But he _is_ , and what’s Tom compared to that?

Nothing special.

 

* * *

 

Tom is at his locker, hurriedly swapping his French textbook for his Algebra textbook, when Tommy’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Tom says. “What’s up? You ready for the English quiz on Friday?” He wedges his textbook under his arm and closes his locker.

Tommy grimaces, slings his arm over Tom’s shoulders, and starts walking down the hall. “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I gotta go straight to training after school, so I won’t see you after lunch,” Tommy says.

“Okay?” That’s nothing unusual. It’s not often that Tom and Tommy ride the bus together, unless they’re going to Tom’s house. The downtown location of Tommy’s training gym means he takes an entirely different bus route.

“But we’re still studying for the quiz at your place tomorrow, right?” Tommy asks. He grimaces again and adds, “Mrs. Powell’s quizzes make my balls shrink up into my fucking stomach.”

Tom laughs. “You’ll be fine. Just try not to second guess yourself so much with the multiple choice questions. Also, what the fuck? I do _not_ want to hear about your balls.”

“Everyone wants to hear about my balls,” Tommy says breezily. “Anyway, we still on for tomorrow?”

Tom starts to say yes _,_ since the extra study might help put Tommy’s mind at ease, and then stops. “...Maybe not,” he says slowly.

Tommy winces. “Shit. Why not?”

“Rach has been having trouble sleeping lately. She keeps crying on and off. It’s probably not the best place for us to study.” Tom hesitates for a second then says, “...Maybe we could study at your place? We’ll only be studying,” he says quickly, when Tommy’s expression turns unsure. “So if your dad’s sleeping, we won’t wake him. Trust me. It’s going to be impossible to study with Rach crying.”

If Tom is completely honest with himself, it’s not absolutely necessary for them to study at Tommy’s house. They could study at the library (although Tommy’s still weird about going to places other than Tom’s house, so maybe not). But he’s curious. He’s never been to Tommy’s house, and they’ve been friends – _best_ friends – for ages now. It’s just... well, it’s just kind of _weird_.

“It should be okay,” Tommy says slowly. “Dad’s working late at the mill anyway. It’s fine.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, after school, Tom travels to Marshall-Shadeland for the first time.

It’s the neighbourhood directly south of Tom’s, but the route turns out to be more complicated than Tom’s fifteen minute direct route. Tom tries to commit the stops to memory, but the entire trip takes roughly thirty minutes, requires one line switch, and involves far more walking than Tom’s used to. By the time they turn into Tommy’s street, Tom’s forgotten which stop he has to get off at to switch lines.

Tom looks around intently as they walk. Now that he’s committed – _really_ committed – to becoming an architect, he’s trying be more methodical about observing his surroundings, and the buildings that he sees. The subjects in his sketch pads have been slowly transitioning from cartoons and doodles into still lifes, landscapes, and clumsy attempts at technical drawings. Tom thinks he’d like to try his hand at drawing Tommy’s neighbourhood one day.

Marshall-Shadeland is old, but not old in the way Tom’s neighbourhood is old. There aren’t any century-old maple trees or brick-paved roads here. Tom had caught glimpses of other streets from the bus, and while some of them had definitely looked rundown, Tommy’s street doesn’t. The houses are worn, but they aren’t dilapidated; they seem worn _in_ instead. Like they’ve been handled so frequently and lovingly that all their rough edges have been polished smooth.

“It’s this one,” Tommy says, interrupting Tom’s thoughts. He gestures at a small brick house then starts climbing the steps.

Tom follows him up, still looking at everything keenly. The house is clearly well-loved. The gutters are clear and the eaves are cobweb-free. Similarly, the front yard is raked, the hedges are trimmed, and the rose bushes are still blooming despite the cold creeping into the air.

“Nice roses,” Tom says, nodding at the pale, pink-tinged buds.

Tommy smiles. “Tell my mom,” he says as he unlocks the door. He leads Tom in, immediately calling out, “Ma! I’m home.”

Tom lingers in the living room, looking at the photos on the walls, while Tommy heads toward the kitchen. Tom can hear the clank of pots and pans being moved around, and then he hears Tommy say, voice slightly hesitant, “I, uh, I brought a friend over.”

There’s a pause and then Tom hears Tommy’s mom say, “Tommy, you know you’re supposed to ask first.”

“I know,” Tommy says. “Sorry.” His mom’s only response is a sigh.

Tom stops peering at the framed photos on the mantle and straightens up when Tommy walks back into the living room, his mom in tow. She’s pretty, although a little tired looking, and she looks eerily like Tommy. Or maybe Tommy looks eerily like her. Same sharp, stubborn jaw, same full mouth, same grey-green eyes. “Hello,” she says as she wipes her hands off on a tea towel; she gives Tom a slightly strained smile.

It’s... not quite the welcome Tom’s used to getting from his friends’ parents. But Tom remembers how Tommy was when he’d first met Tom’s mom, and he pulls out his best manners. He smiles brightly at Tommy’s mom and says, “Hi, Mrs. Conlon. I’m Tom Hansen. Pleased to meet you.” His smile widens as he remembers to add, “I like your rose bushes.”

It works. The strain in Mrs. Conlon’s smile eases a little and she says, “Thank you, Tom.” She sounds amused when she adds, “You have a lovely name.” Tom grins at her.

Mrs. Conlon makes a shooing motion at them with her tea towel. “Well, go on up. I’ll bring up some snacks in a little while.”

Tommy kisses his mom on the cheek and says, “Thanks, Ma.”

He tugs on Tom’s sleeve and carts him back into the hallway and up the stairs, then straight up another set of stairs. The second stairwell is dark and cramped, and the weight of their footsteps makes each step creak. They emerge into an attic room – an attic _bedroom_.

Tommy takes a few steps into the room, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Uh, this is my room,” he says. “You wanna tour?”

His tone is awkward, almost sardonic, and Tom realises abruptly that Tommy’s _embarrassed_. Jesus, is this why Tommy had avoided inviting him over for so long? Tom frowns at him and doesn’t reply. He turns around in a half-circle instead, taking the room in.

Tommy’s bedroom is only marginally longer than the length of a bed. It’s about two thirds the size of Tom’s own bedroom, and it looks even smaller because of the clutter and the steeply sloping walls. That, plus the fact there are _two_ beds in it. Tom blinks.

“Brendan sleeps here too?”

“Yep,” Tommy says. “He’s probably at his girlfriend’s, though.” He sits down on one of the beds then gestures for Tom to sit down on the other.

“Tess?” Tom asks. He always has to check, since Tommy never seems to call Brendan’s girlfriends by their names. Tommy just grunts an affirmative.

Tom sits down opposite him and cranes his neck to take in the Pittsburgh Steelers posters on the walls. Then a hand drawn poster tacked up at the head of the bed catches his attention.

“What’s this?” Tom asks, shifting closer. There are two columns on the poster, one labelled ‘Theogenes’ and another marked ‘Tommy Conlon’. Tom grins at the drawing of the muscle man beside the ‘Tommy’ column.

Tommy walks over, and his voice sounds somewhat bashful when he says, “Oh, uh. You ever heard of Theogenes?”

“Nope. Sounds Greek. Ancient Greek?”

Tommy nods. “Yeah. He was a wrestler—” _Of course,_ Tom thinks, smiling, “—who won 1,415 fights in a row. Undefeated. So I thought... I mean, you gotta have goals, right?”

Tom’s eyebrows go up. He knew Tommy was ambitious when it came it wrestling, but to go for an undefeated record streak that high—

Tom whistles, long and low. “Seriously? That’s dedicated. How far along are you?” He traces his finger along the coloured column: 315. There’s a newspaper clipping glued beside it, calling Tommy a wrestling prodigy. It makes him smile, and the Penn State flag glued next to the 900 wins mark makes him smile wider.

“I’ll be done when I get to the Olympics,” Tommy says, pointing at the top of the poster, where _1,416_ – one match more than Theogenes – and _2000 Sydney Olympics_ are written in all caps. With exclamation marks.

Tom grins at him. “That’s cool.” He looks around the room. It’s cramped and it’s tiny, but it’s got Tommy stamped all over it. Tom likes it. But Tommy still seems slightly embarrassed – he starts fidgeting when he notices Tom looking around again – and he shouldn’t be. He just shouldn’t.

To distract him, Tom points at the trophy-laden shelf at the foot of Tommy’s bed. “Those your trophies?”

It seems to do the job. Tommy’s back straightens slightly as he walks over to them. “Yeah. I’m going to win State this year. That trophy is going here,” he says proudly, pointing at an empty spot in the middle.

Tom scoots along the bed to look at the trophies. The shelf is slightly bowed in the middle, and it’s practically groaning under their combined weight. “Man, your trophies are going to take over this room soon.”

Tommy grins, pleased. “Yup.” He drops onto the bed beside Tom, posture relaxed, all awkward embarrassment gone. “Okay,” he says, “let’s do this.”

Tom smiles. He tugs his copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ out of his bag, along with Mrs. Powell’s list of study questions. “Right. So: ‘Describe Atticus Finch’s parenting style, and give three examples of how he seeks to instil conscience in his children’...”

 

* * *

 

When Rachel turns four months old, her sleeping patterns even out again. Tom and Tommy return to spending the bulk of their time at Tom’s house, studying, goofing off, and doting on Rachel. But Tom still gets to visit Tommy’s house another two times, and the change of scenery is nice.

On his second visit, Mrs. Conlon stops them from heading upstairs and tells them to study in the living room instead.

“There’s more space in the living room,” she says firmly. Tommy obeys immediately, and Tom follows him.

There’s almost a routine to the way they do things at Tommy’s house. They’ll walk in the door and Tommy will find his mom, either in the kitchen or out in the backyard, and kiss her cheek in hello. Mrs. Conlon will pat Tom on the cheek when he says hello, and then Tom and Tommy will troop back into the living room to study. About halfway through, Mrs. Conlon will bring them snacks and drinks. And if they finish their homework early, _then_ they can go to Tommy’s room to hang out.

But this time, the fourth time, is when the routine changes.

It starts with the sound of a car pulling up to the front of Tommy’s house. Tom pays the purring rumble of the engine no mind – too busy trying to figure out the wording on his essay – until Tommy tenses up. Tom glances at him curiously.

“You okay?” He asks.

Tommy looks at him, eyes wide, but before he can answer, the door swings open and a man walks in, footsteps heavy in the entryway.

 _He must be Tommy’s dad,_ Tom thinks. He doesn’t look much like Tommy, but Tom thinks he can sees some similarity to Brendan around the eyes and mouth.

Tommy’s dad is slightly dishevelled, walking slowly and carefully, and he _reeks_. Tom’s nose wrinkles of its own volition when the smell of alcohol hits him. He glances out the window, at the car that’s now parked out the front of the house, then looks back at Mr. Conlon incredulously.

Mr. Conlon stares at them from the entryway then staggers forward, stopping two feet away from the couch. Tom stares back, and the hairs on the back of his neck stands up when he realises how stiff and quiet Tommy is beside him.

“Who the fuck is this?” Mr. Conlon finally says – slurs, really. He waves at Tom, but he’s staring hard at Tommy.

Tommy gets up immediately, moving around the couch to stand in front of his dad. It feels kind of like Tommy’s shielding Tom, and he has to resist the urge to peer around him.

“He’s— he’s a friend from school,” Tommy says, voice calm and even in a way Tom hasn’t heard before. It sounds like he’s soothing a skittish animal.

Or a rabid dog.

Tom’s brow furrows. He doesn’t know where _that_ thought had come from, but the air feels charged with— something. Something unpleasant and dark. Menacing.

Mr. Conlon’s voice is just as even as Tommy’s, but it comes out low and _ugly_ when he says, “And what the hell is he doing in my house?”

“We’re studying,” Tommy says. He steps toward his dad, reaching for his elbow. “Let’s— you’re probably tired, yeah, Pop? Lemme help you—”

“Do _not_ fucking pull that shit on me,” Mr. Conlon snaps, slapping Tommy’s hand away. Tom jumps.

“Was this your idea?” Mr. Conlon says, raising his voice. He’s looking past both Tommy and Tom. He’s looking toward the kitchen, Tom realises; toward _Mrs. Conlon_.

Tom looks over his shoulder nervously. Mrs. Conlon is standing in the kitchen doorway, tea towel clutched in her hands. Her face is still – too still. Her lips are pressed tightly together and her eyes are wide.

“Pop—” Tommy tries again.

“Did you let him bring some shit heel into my fucking house?” Mr. Conlon says, stepping around Tommy and pointing at Tom. “Did you tell him it was okay to blow off his goddamn training? Who told you that was okay? Where did you get the fucking idea that you could—”

A hand lands on Tom’s shoulder, and Tom panics until he realises it’s Tommy. “You need to go,” Tommy says, low and urgent. And then he’s moving away, getting in front of his dad once more. He starts speaking, but this time he’s speaking too quietly for Tom to hear.

For five whole seconds, Tom stays stock-still on the couch.

Then his brain kicks into gear. He packs his bag and gets up, never taking his eyes off Mr. Conlon. He’s saying something to Tommy, and his voice still carries that growling undertone of menace. Tom edges toward the living room entrance. When no one turns to look at him, he darts for the door, tugs it open, and bursts out of Tommy’s house. He reaches the other side of the street in seconds.

Then he jerks to a halt, hands trembling slightly.

What— what the hell is he doing? Where the hell is he going? He doesn’t have any bus money – Martin is supposed to pick him up. And, for the love of God, what was he thinking, justleaving Tommy _alone_ in there? What the _hell_? What kind of fucking friend _is_ he?

There’s a loud crash from inside Tommy’s house, and Tom’s heart leaps into his throat. The crash is followed by yelling – Mr. Conlon snarling and slurring words that Tom can’t make out. But he can hear the venom and the viciousness in his voice perfectly, and it’s like _nothing_ Tom has ever heard before.

He’d gotten used to his parents’ arguments – the raised voices and the slammed doors, followed by long periods of frigid silence – but this... this is something else.

There’s more crashing, and then thumping noises. Tom can hear Tommy talking, his voice sharp and urgent and _afraid_. He looks around wildly. He needs— he needs to call someone. He needs to get help, or just— _something_. He needs to do _something_.

But the street is empty. All the houses are shut tight, and there are no cars parked along the street except for Mr. Conlon’s. _Of course there aren’t,_ Tom thinks numbly, as the shouting continues. It’s still the afternoon. No one’s home yet.

Tom stares up at Tommy’s house, frozen and helpless. He doesn’t have a phone. He doesn’t have any bus fare. Martin isn’t coming for at least an hour. He can’t go anywhere, and there’s nothing he can _do_.

 

* * *

 

The shouting and crashing stops after an hour. It feels like an eternity.

Tom sits on the top step of Tommy’s house, staring out at the street. People are just starting to return home. The street echoes with the sound of car doors opening and slamming, of people calling out greetings to one another as they walk into their houses.

Tom wonders how many of them are hiding secrets like Tommy.

He glances over his shoulder when the front door opens. When he sees that it’s Tommy, he turns back to face the street. Tommy sits down beside him silently. Neither of them speaks for a while.

When Tom can finally trust his voice to stay even he says, “Your dad sleeps in the afternoons sometimes, huh?”

He can see Tommy staring at him, out the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t turn his head to meet Tommy’s gaze. Eventually, Tommy turns to look out at the street too. “He does sleep in the afternoons,” he says. “Sometimes.”

 _I just bet,_ Tom thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “You didn’t trip getting off the bus, did you? When you came over to my house last year.” It’s not really a question.

Tommy doesn’t say anything.

Tom thinks about all the other times. He thinks about all of Tommy’s bruises, about all of Tommy’s _excuses_. His chest tightens. “You didn’t get hurt fighting with Brendan. Or during a wrestling meet. Or have an accident during training. None of that was true.”

Long, long silence from Tommy, before he takes a breath and says, “You want a fucking medal or something?”

Tom makes a noise of disgust. “God. I’m a fucking _idiot._ ” He turns to look at Tommy, eyes wide with distress. “Why haven’t you _told_ anyone?”

“Everyone knows,” Tommy says shortly. “And even if they didn’t, it’s none of their fucking business.”

“What do you mean, _‘everyone knows’_?”

Tommy rubs a hand over his mouth. “Everyone knows my dad,” he says. It’s an explanation and it isn’t at the same time. “It’s not a big deal, okay?”

“How the _hell_ can you—” Tom snaps, before cutting himself off abruptly. He’s _not_ going to yell at Tommy. He just isn’t. “...I think it’s a big deal,” he says quietly. “It’s— you looked really scared in there. Your mom did too.”

“Sometimes he’s scary. Sometimes he’s not,” Tommy shrugs. His voice turns challenging, slightly combative when he says, “What, you’ve never been scared of your dad?”

 _No,_ Tom starts to say. Then he stops. He thinks of when his parents had first started arguing, and how their arguments had rendered him frozen and mute. “...I’ve never been scared of him like that,” he says finally.

Tommy stares at him, seemingly at a loss. “Well... he’s not always like that,” he says. “And he wasn’t supposed to be home tonight. So... sorry.”

Tom plucks at his shoelace, frustrated. “You shouldn’t have to apologise for your dad.” And God, Tom knows _that_ well. His dad is nothing like Tommy’s, but Tom knows you shouldn’t have to apologise for your own father.

Tommy says nothing for a long while. And when he eventually speaks, all he says is, “Do you want me to call Martin?”

Tom wants to say no. He wants to stay with Tommy and— well, he doesn’t know what. He just doesn’t want to leave Tommy alone. But Tommy’s face is impassive and his body language closed off. For the first time since they’d become friends, Tom isn’t sure Tommy wants him around.

“Yeah,” he says reluctantly. “I guess.”

Tommy nods. He gets up, heading for the door. He hesitates, hand on the doorknob, then says, quiet and firm, “Don’t tell your mom, okay?”

Tom stares at him. There’s so much he wants to say to that. He wants to say _you can’t ask me to do that,_ and _he’s hurting you,_ and _if you go to the police, I’ll go with you._

But Tommy’s jaw is hardening, turning stubborn, and Tom knows that Tommy won’t. He knows that if he calls the police, Tommy will deny his dad ever laid a hand on him, and then he’ll be furious with Tom to boot.

There’s nothing Tom can do, except cave in the face of Tommy’s stubbornness. “Okay,” he says quietly.

 

* * *

 

Tom doesn’t talk on the drive back home.

He can see the quick glances Martin gives him whenever they stop at a red light. He knows Martin probably thinks he’s doing it on purpose – giving him the silent treatment, like he had when Martin first started dating his mom. Tom wants to reassure him that it has nothing to do with him. Maybe even tell him there are days when he prefers Martin over his dad, because at least Martin had never abandoned him without a word.

But he can’t find the words to explain. Not without making it sound like there’s something wrong with Tommy, and he’d given Tommy his word that he wouldn’t say anything. So he keeps quiet.

He’s quiet throughout dinner too; he responds to his mom and Martin’s attempts at conversation only with wan smiles and monosyllables.

“Are you feeling okay, sweetheart?” His mom asks finally, sweeping his fringe aside so she can put her hand on his forehead.

Tom squirms away, mumbling, “’m’fine.”

His mom frowns, and Tom has a few moments of panic when she asks, “Did something happen with Tommy?” The panic vanishes when she continues, “Did you two have a fight or...?”

A fight? Only if Tom promising to stay quiet about Tommy’s dad, even though he doesn’t _want_ to, counts as a fight. But it makes for a good excuse – one that will probably get his mom off his back.

Tom nods.

His mom and Martin exchange indulgent, knowing glances across the table. _Of course,_ their looks seem to say. So _that’s_ why Tommy called Martin to pick Tom up early.

Tom wants to snap at them. He wants to tell them that they _don’t_ know what’s going on, that they don’t know _anything—_

He bites his tongue at the last second.

“I’m not really hungry,” he says, pushing away from the table without asking to be excused.

He spends the rest of the night sprawled on his stomach, playing with Rachel on the floor. At one point, Rachel grabs his thumb then pushes her upper body up. She gazes at him, and he knows she’s way too young to understand things like imitation, but her stare still seems kind of expectant.

“Sorry, Rach,” he tells her quietly. “I don’t think I can do a bunch of push ups. That’s Tommy’s shtick.”

He imagines briefly – just for a second – what life would be like if something happened to Tommy. Worse than what’s already happening now. If Tommy’s dad hurt him so badly that— that—

Tom’s heart stutters. He picks Rachel up, cradling her carefully against his chest. She snuggles against him, happy and oblivious.

“Lucky you,” Tom murmurs, rubbing her cheek. Rachel gnaws on his thumb.


	3. Autumn, 1995 - Winter, 1995

At lunch the next day, Tommy acts like there’s nothing wrong.

The one time his act slips is when Tom tries to talk to him about his dad. Tommy shoots him a look then – a flat warning. Tom shuts his mouth with a snap.

It’s almost like a return to the beginning of their friendship, when they’d both regarded one another cautiously. It reminds Tom of his first few months at Perry, of the aching loneliness that had consumed his days until Tommy had come along. He doesn’t want to go back to that. He’s got other friends now, but none of them are his best friend. That’s Tommy, that’s _always_ been Tommy, and Tom doesn’t want to lose him.

Off footed and unsure, he takes his cue from Tommy, and then they’re both pretending nothing is wrong. It’s not hard; not when Tommy is so very good at it. And that’s just not _normal_.

Tommy isn’t a good actor when he’s nervous; he isn’t a good _liar_. He’s awful at it, actually. His mouth twitches and his eyes get too wide when he’s lying to teachers. Once, he and Tom had tried to lie to Tom’s mom about what happened to the vase in the upstairs hallway; Tommy’s fidgeting had given them away. And Tommy doesn’t even bother trying to lie to his own mom.

But he’s a good actor when it comes to this. It disturbs Tom because he realises that Tommy must be used to it. He must’ve had years of practice at it. _How long has this been going on?_ Tom wants to ask. _Why didn’t you_ tell _me?_

But because Tommy’s good at pretending, Tom stays silent. And as the days wear on, things go back to normal.

Except for the ways they don’t.

Tom is hyper-vigilant for any new signs injuries on Tommy now. If Tommy shows up with a bruise on his forearm or an angry red scrape on his knee, Tom’s gut clenches. He knows his anxiety shows, because Tommy always makes a face and reminds him that he had a wrestling meet the day before, remember? Tom always nods, but the anxiety doesn’t fade.

And he can’t bear the thought of yelling at Tommy. If they argue (which they do – over stupid things like who gets to control the radio, and whether looking at the split screen counts as cheating) and Tom raises his voice, he cuts himself off quickly, eyes wide and guilty.

Tommy quickly gets sick of it. When Tom stops ranting at him one day, mid-sentence, because his voice had been approaching a shout, Tommy tackles him to the floor.

Tom stares up at him, shoulders pinned to the rug. Tommy’s face is some indefinable mixture of irritated, frustrated and fond. “The fuck are you doing?” Tommy asks him.

Tom blinks. “I... was saying I wanted the other controller.”

...Okay, now their almost-argument just sounds really dumb.

Tommy gives him an exasperated look. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Tom shrugs as best as he can with Tommy still pinning him to the floor. He doesn’t quite meet Tommy’s eyes when he says, “I just... I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Man, chill out. You got mad. You shouted. It happens.”

Tom frowns unhappily. “...You get enough people shouting at you.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. He looks like he wants to knock Tom’s head against the floor. Or maybe knock his own head against the floor. He climbs off and sprawls on the rug beside Tom. “And I’ll probably get a few more. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not _normal_ for people to scream at you,” Tom insists, frowning harder. Is this a thing? Like an abused kid thing, where Tommy doesn’t know it’s not normal?

“Everyone yells sometimes,” Tommy says slowly, looking at Tom like he’s being insane. “It’s not like you’re hitting me or something.”

Tom stares at him, mute and unhappy at the thought of ever hitting Tommy like Tommy’s dad does. And he knows that people yell, even at people they care about – his parents are proof of that. But still, _still_ —

Tommy sighs and shakes his head. He sits up and tugs at Tom’s shoulder until Tom sits up as well. “D’you wanna come to my wrestling tournament this weekend?” Tommy asks, seemingly apropos of nothing.

_What does that have to do with anything?_ Tom wants to demand. His mouth screws up in irritation over Tommy apparently attempting to change the subject.

And then he blinks.

Because Tommy had just invited him to go to somewhere.

It’s not that Tommy has _never_ extended an invitation to go out somewhere before. But Tom thinks he can count on one hand the number of times Tommy has. And he can understand _why_ Tommy is so reluctant, given what he now knows about Tommy’s dad. Still, the rarity of the offer is enough to render Tom speechless.

Tommy’s face falls when Tom doesn’t say anything. He starts fiddling with the edge of the rug. “I just thought it’d be— I dunno… good to have you there,” he says.

Tom shakes himself out of it. He looks at Tommy thoughtfully. “Is your dad going to be there?”

Tommy gives him a quick glance. “Well, yeah,” he says. “He’s my coach.”

A cold, hard lump forms in Tom’s gut. He’d suspected as much, but— God. He really doesn’t want to see Tommy’s dad again. But Tommy’s glance had seemed... hopeful. He’d looked hopeful, but also like he was trying to tamp down on that hope. It’s probably exactly how Tom had looked when he’d invited Tommy to Lake Erie, he realises.

“I’ll ask Mom,” Tom says slowly. “But I’m pretty sure she’ll say yes.”

Tommy stops fiddling with the rug and turns to look at Tom properly. “Yeah?” A smile is already starting to spread across his face. “So you’ll come?”

“Yeah,” Tom says, warmed. Then he points at Tommy. “Just don’t expect me to jump around, waving pom poms and cheering for you.”

Tommy smirks and pokes him in the chest. “Your tits aren’t big enough for that to be interesting,” he says.

Tom laughs and kicks out at his shin. He hauls himself back up onto the couch and grabs the controller – the one he’d wanted in the first place. He grins at Tommy. Their almost-argument, and the conversation that had followed, is immediately forgotten.

 

-

 

The wrestling tournament Tom ends up attending isn’t just any wrestling tournament – it’s the last day of a two-day regional tournament and it’s the _state qualifier._

“What the _fuck?_ ” Tom hisses when he finds out. He resists the urge to punch Tommy in the shoulder; he doesn’t want to jinx Tommy or anything. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Tommy grins at him, bright and confident in a way he rarely is outside of wrestling. “Thought you paid attention to the wrestling scores,” he teases.

“I _do,_ jackass. But they all have words like ‘championship’ and ‘tournament’ in them. How was I supposed to know _this_ one was the state qualifier? Why doesn’t it have ‘state qualifier’ in its freaking name?”

Tommy shrugs and sips at his water bottle. “You been having fun?” He asks, looking at Tom sidelong.

“Yeah,” Tom says honestly. He’d watched Tommy compete in the semi-final in the morning, relying heavily on the commentators to understand the technical aspects. But even without the commentators, Tom thinks he’d still understand that Tommy is in an entirely different league to his competitors. Unlike some other matches Tom had watched, Tommy had secured a win by fall in the first period; the match had been over in less than a minute.

There’s nothing for Tommy do now but watch the other weight classes’ matches and wait for the final round, which isn’t for another three hours. He sits in the bleachers with Tom, ignoring the girls waving at him from higher up. Tom glances at him, at the girls, then back at Tommy, slightly incredulous.

And then he hears from his left: “What’re you up to?”

Tom turns and then freezes, eyes wide, when he sees Brendan and _Mr. Conlon_ sit down on Tommy's other side.

“Just relaxing,” Tommy says easily.

Mr. Conlon grunts in approval. “Good. Keep those muscles relaxed.” He glances past Tommy to look at Tom. “Who’s this?” He asks Tommy.

Tom stares.

“This is Tom,” Tommy says, slinging an arm around Tom’s shoulders and pulling him forward. “He’s a friend from school.”

Mr. Conlon smiles – actually _smiles_ – and holds a hand out for Tom to shake. “Tom, is it? I’m Tommy’s father, Paddy Conlon.”

Tom shakes his hand automatically, mumbling, “Nice to to meet you.” _I know who you are,_ he thinks. _We’ve met._ But he doesn’t dare say it. Mr. Conlon is acting like he’s never seen him before. And Tom’s heard of alcoholic blackouts, but—

“You got a last name, Tom?”

“...Hansen.”

Mr. Conlon nods. “I had a man in my unit named Hansen. Pennsylvanian Dutch. He was a funny son of a bitch.” He chuckles, deep and warm. Against his will, Tom smiles. He’s never had an adult swear so casually around him before. It feels a little bit like Mr. Conlon is including him in some secret club.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at these meets before,” Mr. Conlon says, interrupting Tom’s thoughts.

“Uh, no. It’s my first time coming to one.”

“Tom’s from New Jersey,” Tommy says, his arm still around Tom’s shoulders. “He just moved here last year.”

“Jersey boy, eh?” Mr. Conlon says. “Frankie Villi’s from Jersey. Good singer. Before your time, though,” he adds, waving a hand dismissively.

“No, I know who he is,” Tom says. When Mr. Conlon raises an eyebrow, Tom half-sings a line from _Can’t Take My Eyes off You_.

Mr. Conlon laughs and reaches around Tommy to clap Tom on the back, easy and familiar. “Keep that up and you’ll have girls eating out of your hand in no time,” he says, and then it’s Tom’s turn to look skeptical. If that were true, Stephanie McCray would blush when she spoke to Tom, not Tommy.

“I’m serious,” Mr. Conlon says, chuckling again. “And I know what I’m talking about when it comes to ladies.”

“Pop,” Brendan says. He sounds exasperated, not embarrassed by his dad’s bragging, but Tom doesn’t doubt the man.

Right now, against the backdrop of cheering crowds and chatter, Mr. Conlon doesn’t seem scary at all. He’s put together; alert. He looks and sounds nothing like the sloppy drunk who’d called Tom a shit heel and terrified his family into near-silence. Tom thinks he might even be a little bit charismatic, like his sons. He exudes the same effortless self-assurance as Brendan when he walks around school, or Tommy when he’s wrestling.

Tom looks over his shoulder again, toward Tommy’s unofficial fan club. It’s gained three more girls since Tom had last glanced over and, to his despair, Stephanie is sitting amongst them.

 

-

 

Half an hour before Tommy’s match is due to start, Mr. Conlon collects Tommy and directs him toward one side of the hall. Tom watches as he puts Tommy through his paces - jogging back and forth, skipping rope, and stretching - presumably getting him warmed up.

The half hour passes quickly, and the final match begins amidst cheers and piercing referee whistles. Tom’s never been to a sports event before, but he’d never imagined they’d be this _loud_. He’d watched the Olympics on TV a few years ago, and even when the camera had panned over the crowds, the cheering had seemed distant, almost muted. Not so here. It’s crowded, noisy, _immediate_ , and Tom finds himself enjoying it more than he would’ve thought.

Unlike the semi-final, Tommy doesn’t win immediately. He gets close, toward the end of the first period, pulling his opponent – one Ben Maddox, from Westmoreland – up and over him; Tom had almost thought Tommy was being pinned, until Tommy had slipped out from beneath and grappled Maddox down, Maddox’s back arching painfully. It’s a near fall, according to the commentary, but it’s not enough to secure a victory.

In the second period, however, Tommy surges forward in a flurry of quick, canny movement and pins Maddox to mat within thirty seconds of the bell sounding. Tom doesn’t understand a bit of it – not what Tommy did, or which moves got him which points. But he understands the referee counting down. He understands the sudden thrum of excitement surging through the crowd, and most of all, he understands when the referee slaps the mat and Tommy leaps up, arms raised, crowing in victory.

Tom leaps up with him, riding vicariously on Tommy’s high, and his cheer blends in with the sound of everyone else cheering. Feeling suddenly charged and restless, Tom darts out into the aisle, almost tripping down the bleacher stairs in his haste.

He barely manages to avoid colliding with Tommy when he reaches the floor proper, and then he’s slinging his arm around Tommy’s shoulders—  or maybe Tommy is throwing his arm over Tom’s, Tom can’t quite tell; they’re just a tangle of limbs, all back slapping and shouting and boyish enthusiasm.

Tommy’s chanting something in his ear; the noise of the crowd is so loud that Tom has to lean in close, and even then it takes him a few seconds to understand what he’s saying, “—to state, I’m going to state, I’m going to state—”

He sounds both ecstatic and dazed, and Tom bursts out laughing. “You’re going to state!” He says, half-confirming, half-cheering. “Of course you’re going to state, you’re fucking amazing.” He hugs Tommy tighter with the arm he still has thrown over Tommy’s shoulders.

Tommy grins at him, eyes bright. He opens his mouth to say something – maybe to say he’s going to state again, Tom thinks, grinning – but before he can, Mr. Conlon is there. He snags Tommy by the elbow, pulls him away so he can fold Tommy into a congratulatory hug of his own. It’s a rough hug, lasting only a few scant seconds. But Mr. Conlon pairs it with a firm and affectionate hair ruffle that gets Tommy’s hair sticking up like a cockscomb, and it’s in that moment that the local news crew descends.

Tom backs away, as does Mr. Conlon, leaving Tommy to talk to the sports news interviewer and one of the match commentators, his hair still tufted up and his face alight with fierce joy. He looks completely ridiculous, and Tom can’t help but smile, fond and pleased for him. When he hears Tommy talking about Theogenes and the 2000 Olympic games, his smile widens into a grin.

Tommy’s just winding up his semi-interview when Mr. Conlon returns, with Brendan in tow this time. They walk up behind Tom, just in time for him to hear Brendan say, “Pop, I’ve been here _all day._ ” Irritation stains his voice. Tom turns around to look at them.

“I’ve got midterms coming up,” Brendan continues, frowning. “I’ve got _SATs_. I gotta study.”

“Your brother just made it to _state,_ ” Mr. Conlon says, laughing. He claps Brendan on the back. “This calls for a celebration. Take a night off from studying. It’s not like you need it, you always get good grades,” he adds dismissively.

Brendan’s expression darkens, but Mr. Conlon doesn’t seem to notice. He turns to Tom and Tommy, taking them both by the shoulder. “What do you say, boys? Does it sound like something worth celebrating? Celebrating with a cheesesteak, maybe?”

Tommy’s eyes light up at the thought of breaking his diet. “ _Yeah,_ ” he says, grinning wide. He elbows Tom. “Cheesesteak sounds awesome, right?”

Tom looks back and forth between him and Mr. Conlon. “I’ve never had a one,” he confesses.

Tommy’s mouth drops open. “You’re shitting me,” he says. “You’ve lived here for more than a year and you’ve _never_ had a cheesesteak?”

Mr. Conlon grins and turns them both around, herding them toward the door. “It’s settled then,” he says, “Cheesesteaks for the future state champion and the Jersey boy.”

 

-

 

On the drive down to the diner, Tom discovers that his initial impression was correct: when he isn’t drunk, Mr. Conlon is charming, quick-witted and _funny_. His sense of humour is sly, and he laughs out loud when Tom – half-mesmerised and half-terrified of the possible outcome – dares to give him cheek back.

“You’re a smart little shit, aren’t you?” Mr. Conlon says, after he stops laughing. He grins at Tom over his shoulder before turning back to the road.

“He is,” Brendan says, reclining in the backseat beside Tom. There’s an edge to his voice when he adds, “Makes you wonder why he’s hanging out with this muscle head here.” He reaches forward, past the passenger seat headrest, and slaps Tommy upside the head.

“Blow it out your ass,” Tommy tells Brendan cheerfully, knocking his hand away. He doesn’t turn around – eyes trained on his medal like he’s hypnotised – so Tom is the only one who sees the bitter, narrow-eyed glare that Brendan shoots Tommy. His brow furrows. Is Brendan—?

He _is,_ Tom realises. Brendan is _jealous_ of his little brother. Tom’s mouth drops open a little in disbelief. Even though Tom’s sometimes jealous of how easily Tommy draws the notice of girls, Brendan is smart, good looking and _popular_. What could he _possibly_ be jealous over?

But almost as soon as he thinks it, Tom knows the answer.

Tommy is the one sitting in the passenger seat, not Brendan, even though Brendan is taller. Mr. Conlon had thought nothing of telling Brendan to change his study schedule, even though Brendan is in his senior year. And, judging by Brendan’s expression, Tom’s certain it’s not the first time it’s happened.

 

-

 

The cheesesteak is awesome. Amazing. It even feels a little bit sinful, because Tom had kept kosher until his parents’ divorce, after which his mom had given up religion like she had their house in Margate.

Tommy laughs out loud at the look on Tom’s face when he takes his first bite, and kicks him lightly beneath the table. “See?” He says. “Cheesesteaks are great, right?”

Tom, too busy trying to cram more of the cheesesteak into his mouth, just nods.

The atmosphere in their diner booth is buoyant, relaxed. It almost erases Tom’s memory of Mr. Conlon snarling and smashing things in his own home. And, when he does think of it, the contrast is so marked that the memory feels unreal.

The only thing possibly ruining the good vibe is that Mr. Conlon’s favouritism continues.

Tommy sits beside his dad in the booth, and Mr. Conlon crows to all and sundry that Tommy made it to state; the announcement is met with indulgent smiles and applause from everyone. Somehow, Tom doubts Brendan received the same treatment when he got into the National Honor Society. Mr. Conlon even seems to be paying _Tom_ more attention than he does Brendan, because it gives him more opportunity to talk about Tommy.

It’s exactly the sort of thing Tom used to fear would happen when Rachel was born. And although he knows now that his mom and Martin would never do such a thing, he feels intensely sorry for Brendan that it _is_ happening to him. And Jesus, Tom never thought that _he’d_ have reason to feel sorry for _Brendan Conlon_.

When Mr. Conlon tugs Tommy away to go talk to a friend from the mill (and to brag some more, probably), it leaves Tom alone with Brendan. Brendan is silent, playing idly with a sugar packet, not quite watching his dad and his little brother.

Tom turns to him, and months of trying to play peacemaker between his parents makes him say, “I’m excited for Tommy and everything, but I can’t imagine spending all that time training.” Then he winces. That sounded _completely_ obvious. And it had come out of nowhere to boot.

Brendan glances at him. One corner of his mouth ticks up in amusement. “Not into sports?”

“I like soccer okay,” Tom shrugs. “But I’m not that great at it. I’ve always been better at school.”

“I hear that.”

There’s an awkward beat before Tom decides to try again. “Are you— do you feel ready for the SATs?”

Brendan smiles wryly. “I don’t think anyone ever feels ready for the SATs.”

“It’s cool, though. You’re going to be done with high school soon. And then you can apply for college. Do you know where you want to go?”

“I’m applying to PSU, Temple, Pitt, and UPenn. I don’t really wanna leave Pennsylvania,” Brendan confesses.

Because of Tess, probably. “I’m thinking of going to UPenn,” Tom says.

Brendan’s eyebrows go up. “You’re thinking about college _already_? And aiming straight for the Ivy League, huh?”

Tom shrugs and grins. “You should aim high, right? And my dad’s been talking about me going to college since I was in grade school.” The last part slips out thoughtlessly, and Tom winces.

Brendan’s good mood collapses. “Sounds like your dad’s pretty proud of your brains.”

Tom fiddles with his jacket zipper. “I guess he is.” _Or he used to be,_ he thinks to himself. It’s not like he knows now.

There’s a long silence, and then Brendan says, “I’m going to be the first person in my family to go to college.” He doesn’t seem bitter anymore, just... tired. Resigned.

Tom peers at him from beneath his fringe. “Yeah? That’s— I think that’s pretty cool.” And he does. Even though everyone in Tom’s family – immediate and extended – has gone to college for two generations now, Tom thinks being the first in your family to do something sounds pretty cool.

Brendan smiles at him. It’s smaller than the gleaming, all-American grin he flashes at school, but it seems more genuine somehow. Tom likes it.

But the conversation seems to have petered out, and Tom finds himself looking around awkwardly. He ends up looking at Tommy and Mr. Conlon again. They’ve moved to the counter and Mr. Conlon’s holding court with some waitresses and a few other customers. Tommy sits beside him, and two girls from Perry are smiling at him, flirting-but-not-flirting. Tommy’s eying them warily.

Brendan follows the direction of his gaze. Suddenly, he nudges Tom lightly and grins, saying, “You know, my old man talks a lot of crap, but he’s right about the girls and singing. You have _no_ idea what an advantage that is.”

Tom makes a face. “I can’t sing.”

“That’s not what it sounded like to me.”

“I can hold a _tune_. There’s a difference between that and singing. And even if I could, girls don’t go for guys who can sing. If that were true, the guys in the school choir would have fan clubs, not the football guys.”

Brendan laughs and points at him. “You know what your problem is?”

“What?”

“No confidence. If you act like no girl will ever be interested in you, no girl will be.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Why’s that?”

Tom scowls. “You’re—” he gestures vaguely at his face. “You and Tommy. You’re both...” more gesturing, and Tom goes red, because _God_ – he sounds like he’s gay or something.

Brendan laughs again. “Okay, so maybe we’re both—” he mimics Tom’s gestures, smirking. “But look at Pop. He seems to be doing fine.”

Tom turns to look at Mr. Conlon, who’s grinning and saying something to a pretty blonde waitress; Tom hears him call her ‘darling’. Rather than look annoyed, which is how Tom’s mom reacts to being called ‘darling’, the waitress smiles and offers Mr. Conlon some more coffee.

“See?” Brendan says.

Tom turns back to him. “If he looked like you guys when he was younger, I don’t think he had much trouble with girls.”

“You’ve got a complex that won’t quit, kid. And maybe he did. But he doesn’t look like us now.”

Tom opens his mouth to reply, but the bell over the diner door chimes. Brendan looks around, and he sits up immediately when Tess walks through the door. He glances back at Tom. “Uh. I’m just gonna—” He grins. “Well, I’ll see you around, okay?”

Tom nods and Brendan claps him on the shoulder as he gets up. “Remember what I said,” he says, pointing at Tom. “Confidence.” And then he’s striding up to Tess, his smile going soft at the edges.

Tommy slides into the booth almost immediately after Brendan vacates it. The girls at the counter are gone. “What were you guys talking about?” He asks curiously.

Tom glances at Brendan and Tess, at Mr. Conlon and the waitress. He purses his mouth thoughtfully before shrugging. “Oh, you know. School. Girls.”

 

-

 

**Winter, 1995**

Tom’s been in Pittsburgh for a year and a half now.

He’s gotten used to a lot of things – the fact he can’t see the ocean, no matter where he goes, and the idiosyncrasies of Pittsburgh speech, for example. But one thing he still hasn’t gotten used to is Pittsburgh’s snap freeze winter.

He’s a coastal boy, used to humid, windy summers and short snowfalls in winter. He’s not used to a hard, sharp, biting cold that just seems to go on and on and on. His dad had never liked staying in New Jersey when it got cold, anyway. They’d gone to California a lot during winter break, to visit Tom’s family on his mom’s side. Once, they’d even gone to Hawaii (it had rained for three days straight, but it was still far warmer than the mainland).

The weather has been growing steadily colder over the past few months, but in the middle of November it plummets. The local news makes a lot of noise about how the fast-encroaching winter looks set to be the coldest on record.

“I seriously fucking hope it isn’t the coldest winter ever,” Tom mutters, huddled miserably in his jacket during homeroom.

Tommy hooks a foot around a leg of Tom’s chair and jerks it closer. “Aww, poor baby,” he coos. “Life’s so hard. Want me to cuddle you to keep you warm?” He brings his arms up.

Tom bursts out laughing and shoves his arms away. “Get the hell away from me,” he says, scooting his chair back. Tommy gives him an exaggerated mock-pout.

“You two are ridiculous,” Stephanie says from her seat behind Tom. When Tom turns around to look at her, she’s smiling. Tom’s brain comes to a complete stop.

After a few seconds, it comes back online, and he realises that Stephanie has moved on to say something to Tommy; Tommy just shrugs and replies in a noncommittal tone. Tom has no idea what he’s saying - he’s too busy sinking into a personal quagmire of misery.

Against usual high school convention, Stephanie has been changing seats, moving progressively closer to them all year. And while Tom has been telling himself to be realistic, part of him had nevertheless been hoping that she’d been moving closer because of him. No such luck, though. All of Stephanie’s attention seems to be on Tommy. Tom wants to slump down in his seat, or slide under the table - anything to pull himself back from this miserable social situation.

And then he remembers Brendan saying, _‘You know what your problem is? No confidence.’_

Tom glances at Stephanie again. She’s looking at Tommy, yeah, but she’s not gazing at him with wide cow eyes like other girls do. So maybe...

_Say something to her,_ his brain says. _Say something_ soon. _Don’t be a dork._

He looks down at Stephanie’s desk. Her binder and textbooks are scattered across it, but there are also music sheets for _Matchmaker_ and _Sabbath Prayer_. Tom already knows what they are, thanks to his grandmother’s obsession with Broadway - they’re songs from _Fiddler on the Roof_. But it makes for a good a conversational topic as any, so he points at the music sheets and says, “What’re those?”

Stephanie looks down to where he’s pointing. “Oh,” she says, shuffling the papers. “They’re— well. Lyrics. For the school musical. I’m auditioning.” She looks at Tom and smiles, lips glossy and pink. Tom’s stomach flip-flops

“You can sing?” He manages to say after a few seconds.

Stephanie flushes a little. “Well, I’m not— I’m not like Josie or anything—” Tom supposes she means Josephine Angotti, one of the sopranos on the school choir, “—but I think I’m pretty decent.”

Tom nods a little stupidly. What now? Crap, what can he say now? Confidence, Brendan had said. Okay. He can do confident.

...Maybe.

“Sing something for me,” he says finally, smiling encouragingly. Stephanie’s eyes go wide.

“Now?” She asks. “ _Here?_ ”

Tom looks around. The decibel level of their homeroom class is almost deafening, as usual, and they’re sitting to one side of the class. He turns back to her, shrugging. “Why not? No one’s paying attention. And even if they were, you’re going to be performing in front of the school when you get your role, right?” ‘When’, not ‘if’. Okay, good. That’s good, right? It sounds like he has faith in her. Never mind that he doesn’t even know if she can sing yet.

Stephanie beams wide at the ‘when’ (or so he hopes), but shakes her head. “I can’t,” she says, blushing.

Tom opens his mouth to say— well, something. Something encouraging, hopefully. But before he can come up with anything, Tommy suddenly says, “Tom can sing.”

Tom whirls around to give him an appalled look. Tommy raises his eyebrows, grinning a little. The look on his face seems to say, _what? I’m helping you._ Tom stares back, and his look says, _you may think you’re helping, but you’re not._

“ _Really?_ ” Stephanie says. When Tom turns back to her, she’s smiling even wider. “You should audition then. Ms. Gershwin was saying just the other day that not enough boys audition, and she always has to modify the roles and costumes so girls can play them.” She laughs suddenly. “And you can dance! You did the Snoopy dance.”

Tom’s face goes hot. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tommy’s eyebrows go up at ‘Snoopy dance’. “I’m— I’m not really the... school musical type,” Tom mumbles. He goes even redder. God he sounds lame. So much for confidence.

Stephanie raises her eyebrows. “Well, maybe _you_ should sing something for _me,_ ” she says.

Tom stares at her for a few seconds. “Maybe,” he says. He manages to summon up a smile from somewhere, and then it’s just the pair of them smiling, like that’s the extent of their emotional range right now. Tom’s pretty sure Tommy’s looking at him like he’s an idiot.

Thankfully, Tom’s saved from— well, _himself_ , by the school bell ringing. Stephanie shoots him one last smile before she gets up and walks out of the classroom with her friends. Tom stares after her. He suddenly doesn’t notice the cold at all.

“Man,” Tommy says, “you’re kind of hopeless.”

Tom knocks his shoulder against Tommy’s. “Shut up.”

Tommy jostles him back, but after a second he says, “That helped, though, right? Mentioning you could sing?”

Tom stares at him in disbelief. Had Tommy _seriously_ been trying to play wingman for him? An incredulous grin spreads across his face and he laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, it helped.”

Tommy nods, satisfied.

 

-

 

When December rolls around, winter hits with full force.

It’s not _quite_ the coldest winter on record, much to the local news station’s disappointment and Mr. Thieroff’s satisfaction - he maintains (to anyone that will listen) that the coldest winter was the winter of ‘77.

It’s still damn cold, though.

Tom grabs the throw rug from the other couch and drags it over himself. He’s already got one blanket wrapped around him like a shawl, and the heater is kicking in slowly, but there’s a lingering chill in the air. He hunkers down further into his blanket cocoon and tries to focus on Act II of _Julius Caesar_. It’s slow going. The warmth of the blankets is making him sleepy, and Tommy and Rachel aren’t exactly helping.

Right on cue, Tommy laughs loudly, followed by Rachel’s pleased gurgle. Tom frowns.

_...If these motives be weak, break off betimes, / And every man hence to his idle bed..._

What the hell does that even _mean_? He’s pretty sure he understood it yesterday. Tom scrubs at his face and re-reads the line. God, he wouldn’t mind hencing to his idle bed right now. They have another one of Mrs. Powell’s insane quizzes coming up, and his bedroom would at least be quiet. But if he goes to his bedroom, he’s going to fall asleep—

“Tom!”

Tom grunts.

_...So let high-sighted tyranny range on, / ‘Til each man drop by lottery..._

“ _Tom,_ you gotta see this,” Tommy says insistently.

Tom slaps his book down. “We need to _study_ —” he starts to snap. And then he stops.

Because Rachel is rolling from side to side on the floor and giggling as Tommy waves a toy back and forth, just out of her reach.

Tom’s mouth twitches up into a smile and Tommy laughs. “C’mere,” Tommy says, patting the floor beside him.

“We need to study,” Tom says again, but with far less conviction. Rachel’s continued giggling makes his smile widen into a grin.

“We can study later,” Tommy says.

“Since when were you so casual about Mrs. Powell’s quizzes?”

Tommy shrugs.

“We can play with Rach later,” Tom tries one last time.

“Yeah, but she won’t be doing this later.”

Tom watches Rachel make another unsuccessful grab for the toy before her momentum sends her rolling past it again. She rolls back toward Tommy, eyes wide and determined. Tom glances at his copy of _Julius Caesar_ then back at Rachel and Tommy. His resolve crumbles.

“One hour,” he says. “Rach needs to have a nap then, anyway.”

 

-

 

Something weird is going on with Tommy. Tom can feel it.

Tommy, when he gets nervous about tests and hits his limit with studying, tends to distract himself (and Tom). He distracts himself with video games, movies, playing with Rachel, or talking endlessly to Tom (regardless of whether Tom listens or not). And he _is_ doing those things - playing with Rachel and talking to Tom especially. But it’s different. It’s like Tommy suddenly doesn’t care about studying _at all_ , and that’s _weird_ now.

Tom shows up behind Tommy as he digs around in his locker and demands without preamble, “Do you still want to go to Penn State?”

Tommy jumps a little and whirls around. “Jesus, man! Give a guy some warning.”

Tom gives him a firm look. “You _do_ still want to wrestle for Penn State, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Yeah, I do. I _do_ , I just...” he trails off, frowning.

Tom raises an eyebrow. “You just...?”

“Nothing,” Tommy says abruptly. He turns back to his locker, shoulders hunched.

Tom casts an incredulous look at his back. “You want to wrestle for Penn State? You need to get _into_ Penn State first.” Tom moves to Tommy’s side to try and catch his eye. “Jesus, man, I’m your best friend. What’s wr—” Tom stops. He stares at the contents of Tommy’s locker.

Tommy follows his gaze, and then they’re both staring at the pile of clothes Tommy has stashed at the foot of his locker.

“It’s— they’re just there in case I forget to bring a change of clothes,” Tommy says quickly. “For training.”

_Liar,_ Tom thinks. Tommy’s fidgeting and his face is too still. Tom’s irritated concern over Tommy’s grades transforms into pure concern. “...Is everything—”

Tommy gives him a flat warning stare. It’s like the one time Tom had tried to talking to him about his dad all over again; Tom’s stomach drops. His eyes flicker over Tommy, checking for injuries again (why the _fuck_ had he stopped?), but it’s winter now. The only skin he can see is the skin of Tommy’s face and hands. Tom opens his mouth, but no sound emerges.

“Drop it, Tom,” Tommy says quietly, avoiding his eyes. He slams his locker shut.

 

-

 

Tom drops it.

But Tommy doesn’t relax. If anything, Tommy gets worse. If he isn’t fidgeting or doodling during class, he’s staring off into space, his expression simultaneously tense and blank. A ball of dread lodges itself in Tom’s stomach and refuses to go away.

Tom lets it go for about four days, and then he leans over at the end of third period English and says, “Okay, now you’re just worrying me. What’s going on?”

Tommy jerks like he’s touched a live wire and he stares at Tom with wide, startled eyes for a second before his expression smooths over. “...Nothing.”

Tom gives him a look. “Sure there isn’t,” he says. They don’t speak for a minute or so, focused on getting past the crush trying to escape through the door. But once they’re out in the hall, Tom grabs Tommy by the elbow and carts him along until they reach the stairwell near one of the fire exits.

“Okay,” he says firmly. “ _Now_ tell me what’s wrong.”

Tommy fidgets for another half a minute, avoiding Tom’s gaze. Then he rubs a hand over his mouth and says, “I...” he sighs. “Meet me at lunch, in the bathrooms near the chem labs. Then I’ll tell you.”

Tom’s feeling of dread grows. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay. I’ll see you then.” He turns away reluctantly and heads to World History.

 

-

 

Tom remembers absolutely nothing about class that day. He spends the entire fifty minute period staring at the clock. When the bell rings, he’s the first person out the door.

 

-

 

“Right,” Tom says, the instant the bathroom door swings shut. “What’s going on?”

Tommy looks at him solemnly and says, “You have to promise that you won’t tell anyone about this.”

_Like I promised not to tell anyone about your dad?_ Tom thinks. Christ. What _else_ has Tommy been hiding? He frowns. “I promise.”

Tommy rubs a hand over his mouth then says in a rush, “My mom and Bren and I are leaving tomorrow.”

“...You mean... like... on a trip?” Tom says slowly. _Tell me it’s a trip,_ he thinks. _Tell me you’re just going away for a few weeks, to Michigan or something, and then you’ll be back. Tell me you’re not_ really—

Tommy gives him a look. “You know what I mean, man.”

The bottom of Tom’s stomach drops away.

This is like New Jersey all over again. This is like saying goodbye to his friends in Margate, except this is worse. It’s _so_ much worse because this time it’s _Tommy._

“...You’re just— leaving?” He asks finally, voice feeble.

Tommy doesn’t sound much better. He sounds like he has a cold when he says, “We gotta, Tom. We just— we gotta go.”

Tom doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t _have_ to ask, and God. How could he have forgotten what Mr. Conlon was _really_ like? Just because he was nice to Tom once, and bought him a cheesesteak, and made him laugh? He thinks of Tommy’s bruises and the quiet fear that had pervaded the Conlon house, that very first time he’d seen Mr. Conlon.

“Right,” Tom says, nodding dumbly. He can’t seem stop nodding. “Of course you have to go. I get that. I totally get that. It’s just—” his throat closes up. He has to swallow a few times before he can force the next words out. “...I’m going to miss you.”

The world goes blurry then. Tom looks down, blinking rapidly and rubbing his nose. He’s a few weeks shy of fifteen. Fifteen year old guys don’t cry just because their friends are leaving. Not even their best friends.

“I’m gonna miss you too, man,” Tommy says, his voice choked. “And Rachel, and your mom. Mostly you, though.”

Tom nods. _Tommy has to go,_ he tells himself. He _needs_ to go or things will never get better for him, or his mom, or Brendan.

It doesn’t make it any easier.

He wants to say how much he’ll miss him; how much he matters to him, and how grateful he is that they’d been paired together, almost two years ago now. But everything he comes up with feels trite, inadequate. “Screw it,” Tom mumbles under his breath. They’re in the boys’ bathroom during lunch; anyone could walk in. But screw it. This is his best friend and he’s _leaving_.

Tom lunges forward and throws his arms around Tommy, fists clenched in the back of his shirt. Tommy brings his arms up immediately and hugs him tight, squeezing the breath out of Tom. Tom doesn’t give a shit; just hugs him back just as tightly.

They stay like that for half a minute, and then Tom pulls away. He scrubs at his eyes. “Where—” he croaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Where are you going?”

Tommy clears his throat too. “As far— as far as we can get. I dunno where.”

_You don’t?_ Tom thinks, slightly incredulous. But then he thinks of Mr. Conlon, and the hour-long violent rage he’d listened to outside Tommy’s house. ‘Anywhere, as long as it’s far as possible’ suddenly sounds completely reasonable. “Will you call me? Or write to me, when you get to— wherever you go?”

Tommy looks down and he shifts uncomfortably. “I’ll try,” he says. “I dunno if I’ll be able to.”

Tom’s face falls, and the memory of his father flickers to life before he can help it. But this isn’t like that. Tommy’s telling him he might not be able to write or call. He’s not leaving Tom to wonder or hope. “Right,” he says, as evenly as he can. “Okay. So. This is it. Like, this is _really_ goodbye.”

Tommy nods. His expression is downcast. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

Tom stares at him. _This_ can’t _be it,_ he wants to say. It just— it just can’t. They can’t just walk out of this bathroom, and go to lunch, and then to class, and say goodbye at the bus, and have that be _it_. This is _Tommy_. In all his years, Tom’s never had a friend like him, and now he might _never_ see him again _._

“Let’s skip class,” Tom blurts. “We’ll go to my house.” Tommy looks at him uncertainly, and Tom can’t help the desperation that creeps into his voice. “You can’t just tell me something like this and expect me to go to Algebra like nothing’s wrong.”

Tommy opens his mouth then closes it. His brow furrows and he fidgets, clearly torn.

Tom should take the suggestion back. Tommy has enough to be dealing with and Tom shouldn’t make it harder on him. But he’s not that selfless. He can’t bring himself to be that selfless, no matter how much he wants to. So he waits while Tommy struggles, and he doesn’t hold back the relieved smile that spreads across his face when Tommy finally says, “Okay.”

He follows Tommy out of the bathroom and waits as he collects his clothes from his locker. Then they make their way to the back of the school, past the athletics field. Now that it’s winter, the field is deserted.

They get off campus by crawling under the chain link fence, already pulled up and easy to peel aside thanks to students from years past. Tom gets through easily, but it’s a tighter fit for Tommy, who has to use his wrestling skills to twist and wriggle his body through.

They’re silent for the entire fifteen minute bus ride, both lost in their own thoughts. Tom tries his best not to imagine what the rest of the school year – and the years after that – will be like without Tommy. He doesn’t quite succeed.

It makes him stick closer to Tommy than normal, as they walk up the hill to Tom’s house. And after he unlocks the door, Tom grabs Tommy by the wrist and doesn’t let go.

“What do you want to do?” He asks, trying to force as much cheer as possible, past the lump in his throat. “We can play video games or watch a movie or— anything. Whatever you want. You name it and we’ll do it.”

Tommy stands in the middle of the living room, like he has countless times before. He looks around, looks at Tom thoughtfully. He looks like he’s committing everything to memory. After a few seconds he says, “I want to eat all the junk food in the house.”

Tom bursts out laughing, startled. And if his laugh sounds a little shaky, well, they both ignore it. “Doritos,” he says, smiling. He starts heading for the kitchen. “With salsa. And Oreos. And microwave popcorn. And I think we’ve got lasagne in the fridge.”

“Awesome,” Tommy says, and follows him.

 

-

 

Tommy stays until 2:45, and then he says he has to go to training. Tom can hardly believe it, but it makes sense. Tommy can’t let it seem like anything is out of the ordinary, and Tom is again both guilty and selfishly glad that he’d asked Tommy to skip class.

They say goodbye once more at the door, and they hug again, clinging a little.

Tommy finally pulls away after a minute. “Okay, okay,” he says, rubbing his eyes and then his nose with his jacket sleeve. “I gotta— I gotta go or I’ll never get out of here.”

Tom nods, not trusting himself to speak. Tommy gives him a smile that’s more grimace than smile then turns, opens the door and walks out. He waves to Tom when he reaches the corner of Tom’s street. Tom waves back. And then Tommy’s gone.

 

-

 

Tom begs off dinner that night, saying he doesn’t feel well, and goes up to his room. He pretends to be asleep when his mom comes by to check on him. At some point, he actually falls asleep.

He wakes up at 2:20 in the morning and lies on his side, listening to the very faint sound of distant traffic. He wonders where Tommy and Brendan and Mrs. Conlon will decide to go. He has a brief, diverting thought of Tommy ending up in New Jersey. Or maybe they won’t head east. Maybe they’ll go west. Tom falls asleep again to the thought of Tommy heading to California.


	4. Winter, 1995 - Winter, 1996

_It’s for the best,_ Tom tells himself as he walks into school the next day.

His best friend is gone, but it’s for the best. At least this way Tommy and Brendan and Mrs. Conlon will have a normal life. He’s alone again, and the loneliness is like a bloody wound in his chest, but it’s for the best.

Tom repeats it to himself all through homeroom, when the empty seat on his left seems to taunt him; he barely manages to keep track of his conversation with Stephanie because of it. He repeats it to himself during English, when he starts to write a note to Tommy before remembering he isn’t there. He repeats it to himself during Chemistry, when he thinks about lunch and how Tommy won’t be waiting for him in the cafeteria.

He keeps repeating it to himself, right up until Brendan walks past him in the hallway.

“What the fuck?” Tom blurts.

A few people turn to look at him; Mr. Brentley, the football coach, snaps, “Watch the language,” as Tom hurries past. But he doesn’t stop Tom, and Tom speeds up, half-wading, half-running through the crush of students. He catches up with Brendan right before he walks through the cafeteria doors and grabs him by the elbow. “Brendan!”

Brendan turns and his expression flickers when he sees Tom. He immediately herds Tom away from the cafeteria doors, off to the side. A frisson of fear starts worming its way down Tom’s spine.

“What’re you doing here?” Tom asks. He lowers his voice. “I thought— Tommy told me you guys were leaving today. I thought he meant during the day. Are you... are you leaving in the afternoon?” When Brendan shakes his head, the fear spreads in a body-numbing chill. “What happened?”

Brendan’s gaze slides away. “Pop found out.”

Tom’s heart stops.

“What... how?” He says feebly. _What happened?_ How _did he find out?_ He starts to ask. But that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all how Mr. Conlon found out, what _matters_ is— “Tommy. Is Tommy okay?”

Brendan just _looks_ at him.

Tom’s gut clenches so hard he thinks he might be sick. His grip on Brendan’s elbow turns white-knuckled. “What did he...” he breathes out, before the fear and the guilt crashes over him in a drowning wave. He could’ve said something. He _should_ have said something. He never should have promised Tommy he wouldn’t say anything, what the _fuck_ is wrong with him—

Brendan pulls his arm out of Tom’s grip. “What does it matter, what he did? Isn’t it bad enough that he did _something?_ ”

“But—”

“And you think I wanna talk about that?” Brendan interrupts sharply. “About what happened to Tommy and Ma? What good is it going to do either of us, me giving you the details?”

The guilt punches through Tom harder, sharper. He nods jerkily. “I... you’re right. I’m sorry. I just... I’m sorry.”

Brendan nods, his mouth thin. Tom stares down at the floor, mired in guilt and bone-trembling fear. He should’ve done something. He should’ve _said_ something. He did nothing, and now Tommy and Mrs. Conlon are—

Tom stops.

He raises his head and stares hard at Brendan as a vague, nebulous thought starts to solidify. “...Why are you okay?”

“What?”

“You said you don’t want to talk about what happened to Tommy and your mom _._ But you’re—” he looks Brendan over again, “—you look fine. You’re here and Tommy’s _not_. Why are _you_ okay when he isn’t?”

There’s a long, tense silence. Tom doesn’t look away, so he sees the exact moment when Brendan’s level expression crumples into guilt. “I wasn’t there,” Brendan says quietly, not looking at Tom.

Tom stares at him. The guilt in Brendan’s voice conveys what he means perfectly, but— “What do you _mean_ you weren’t there?”

“I mean, _I wasn’t there,_ ” Brendan says, defensive anger starting to blend into the guilt.

“Where were you then?”

Brendan’s gaze stays trained on the far wall. “I went to see Tess.”

Tom’s mouth drops open. He doesn’t— he doesn’t know what he’d expected to hear, but he hadn’t expected to hear _that_. When he finally recovers his voice, it’s thin with outrage. “ _Why?_ ”

It’s the wrong tone to take and Brendan glares at him. “I don’t have to explain myself to you—”

“Well you need to explain yourself to _someone,_ ” Tom cuts in, not giving a shit. “You left him _alone_. You left him alone to deal with your dad, why would you—”

“Because I didn’t think they were going to go through with it!” Brendan snaps, furious and defensive and guilty all at once.

Bewildered, Tom asks, “ _Why?_ ”

“Is that all you know how to say?”

“It’s the only question that matters.”

Brendan grabs Tom by the shoulder and drags him close. The hand on Tom’s shoulder is trembling slightly, and he’s viciously glad when he notices. _Good,_ he thinks spitefully. Brendan _should_ feel bad.

“This is none of your business,” Brendan says, voice low.

“ _Fuck you._ He’s my best friend. Of course it’s my fucking business. _Someone_ has to worry about him, since apparently you won’t _._ ” That wasn’t smart. That wasn’t smart at all, but Tom’s just as guilty and furious as Brendan, and he needs to let it out _somehow_.

Brendan’s eyes flash and Tom tenses in anticipation of the punch that’s surely coming—

“Babe?”

Both Tom and Brendan look up. Tess is standing a few feet away from them, frowning in consternation, clearly wondering why Brendan looks like he’s about to beat on a sophomore kid. Brendan glances at Tom then releases him.

“Just let it go, man,” Brendan says quietly. “There’s nothing you can do.” He steps away from Tom and walks over to Tess.

Tess looks back and forth between them, confused but only mildly concerned. Brendan brushes a kiss over her temple. He keeps his mouth pressed to her hair, but Tom hears him say, “I need to talk to you,” as they walk away from him, their arms around one another.

 

-

 

The instant school lets out, Tom boards the bus for Marshall-Shadeland.

For the entire thirty minute bus ride, he doesn’t think about Tommy or Mrs. Conlon, or about Mr. Conlon possibly being home. Thinking about the former makes him so anxious and distressed that he goes lightheaded, and thinking about the latter makes him freeze up in fear.

He thinks about Brendan and Tess instead.

Brendan had looked at Tess – and she’d looked at him – the way Tom’s mom and Martin look at each other. The way Tom’s parents used to look at one another. Like there was something secret and precious between them, something only they saw. Tom had always thought it was sweet, even if Tommy rolled his eyes whenever he saw Brendan and Tess in the hallways.

Brendan had clearly chosen to stay behind because of Tess. He’d chosen Tess over his _family_ because he was— no, _is_ in love with her. It’s the only conclusion Tom can come up with that makes sense, but it doesn’t comfort him in the slightest.

Because love is supposed to make things go _right_. It’s supposed to make things better. It’s supposed to make _people_ better. It’s not supposed to lead to hard decisions, or wrong choices, or other people getting hurt or left behind, or families being split up. _That’s not supposed to happen_. That’s what happens when people _stop_ being in love. Tom stares out the window miserably.

By the time he gets off the bus, he’s nursing the distinct impression that he doesn’t know much about love – or life – at all.

 

-

 

Mr. Conlon’s car is parked out the front of the house. It takes Tom three minutes to screw up the nerve to knock on the door. After he does, he spends a terrifying second imagining what he’ll do if it’s Mr. Conlon who answers the door. Then that terrifying thought transforms into: what if he’s drunk when he opens the door? Or, possibly worse yet, what if he opens the door and _smiles_ at Tom, pats him on the shoulder like there’s _nothing_ fucking wrong?

After a beat, Tom shoves all those thoughts away. It doesn’t matter what the hell Mr. Conlon does. Tom’s not leaving until he sees Tommy. He latches onto that thought like a totem.

It _is_ Mr. Conlon who answers the door. But then again, who else would? He’s obviously hurt Tommy and Mrs. Conlon so badly he wouldn’t want them answering the door. Assuming they can even get up to open the door, Tom thinks darkly. He stares up at Mr. Conlon, his mind burning with dim anger.

The man isn’t drunk but he isn’t smiling either. He just looks slightly bleary, like he’d been woken up from a nap. _Sleeping in the afternoons,_ Tom sneers to himself.

“Hi, Mr. Conlon,” he says quietly.

Mr. Conlon blinks for a second. “Tom, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Conlon half-smiles at the ‘sir’. “What do you need, Tom?”

Tom pulls out a sheaf of papers from his bag, making sure they’re not within grabbing distance. “Tommy wasn’t at school today,” he says, “and we’ve got an English quiz coming up. Plus there are midterms next month. So I thought I’d bring him his homework.”

Mr. Conlon’s half-smile twitches into a full, friendly smile. “That was good of you,” he says, and he holds his hand out for the homework. “Tommy’s not feeling well, but I’ll take those for him.”

_Tommy’s not feeling well._

The lie rolls off Mr. Conlon’s tongue like it’s _nothing,_ and Tom can’t stop his stare from turning slightly resentful. He pulls the papers closer to himself. “I’d like to give them to Tommy myself,” he says quickly. Probably too quickly, judging by the way Mr. Conlon’s expression shifts slightly. “It’s— he’s got an assignment too,” Tom lies. “It’s a complicated one. I need to explain it to him.”

“I’m sure Tommy’ll figure it out. And if he can’t, he can ask you when he goes back to school.”

Tom’s mouth thins. “I’d like to see Tommy, please.”

“I told you, kid, he’s sick. He’s probably sleeping. I’ll take the—”

“ _I want to see him_.”

Mr. Conlon’s eyes narrow. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit,_ and goddamn it for good measure. _He knows,_ part of Tom’s mind gibbers. _He knows you know. He knows you_ know _, and what if he takes it out on Tommy after you’re gone?_

“I want to see him,” Tom says again, speaking past the fear. “I’m not going to leave until you let me see him.”

Mr. Conlon stares at him, no longer smiling. His grip on the door tightens minutely, and Tom presses his lips together firmly to stop them from trembling. He clings to the spark of anger in him instead. _Try it,_ he thinks, staring back at Mr. Conlon. _Do it. I’ll start_ — _I’ll start screaming or something. Just try it. Slam the door in my face and I’ll make such a fucking scene_ —

“Fine,” Mr. Conlon says brusquely. His expression is completely flat. “Ten minutes and then I want you out of here.” He steps back from the door.

Tom edges around him, unwilling to lose sight of him until he’s well out of grabbing (or striking) range. Only then does he turn and hurry up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. By the time he hits the second storey landing, he’s running, and he doesn’t slow down until he’s halfway up the stairs to Tommy’s room.

“Tommy?” He says, as loudly as he dares, when his feet hit the top step.

It’s dark in Tommy’s room, the curtains half-drawn, but there’s still enough light for Tom to see Tommy sit up in bed. He moves haltingly, no athletic grace to him at all, and when he’s almost upright, he stops suddenly and groans. “Tom?”

Tom stops too, three steps into the bedroom. “Shit,” he breathes. “Oh shit, Tommy. What’d he do to you?”

“What do you think?”

Tom ignores Tommy’s tone and looks him over. Tommy’s face isn’t a mass of bruises like he’d half-feared. There’s only one bruise on his face, dark and starting to purple, at the side of his jaw. But judging by the way Tommy had been moving, that’s _far_ from the extent of it.

Tommy shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “What do you need?”

“I... nothing. I brought your homework,” Tom says, stepping forward and showing Tommy the papers. He sets them down on the trunk that doubles as Tommy’s bedside table. “It was mostly just an excuse to get in the house, though. Your dad didn’t want to let me in.” He sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed. “Brendan told me what happened,” he adds quietly.

Tommy’s face darkens immediately. “Glad he’s so fucking concerned.”

Tom looks down at his hands. “Yeah,” he says, not really sure if he’s commiserating with Tommy’s (justified) anger or agreeing that Brendan _is_ concerned. “I can’t believe he didn’t go with you,” he murmurs after another beat.

Tommy laughs bitterly. “He said he was staying. For _that girl_. And for _Pop._ ”

“What?” Tom says. He’s pretty sure he’s gaping.

“You heard me.”

Tom shakes his head. No. No, Tommy has to be mistaken. Brendan staying for Tess? That he can understand. But staying for his _dad,_ who surely must have beaten Brendan, same as he beat Tommy? “That has to be a mistake.”

“It’s _not,_ ” Tommy snaps. “I was there. I was right fucking there when he looked Ma in the face and told her he wasn’t going. And then he walked out of the house to go see _her._ ”

“No, I mean—” Tom stops. It doesn’t matter what he means. Brendan had made his choice. Tom tugs at his sleeves nervously. “You need to call the cops, Tommy,” he says finally. Whispers, really, because that’s the last thing he needs Mr. Conlon hearing him say.

Tommy’s eyes widen. “No,” he says immediately. He grabs Tom by the shirt and drags him in a little. “ _No._ You can’t tell, Tom. Okay? You can’t fucking tell anyone about this.”

Tom wants to pull his hair in frustration. Or maybe scream. He doesn’t _understand_. He can’t understand Brendan and Tommy’s need to— to _protect_ their dad. It doesn’t make sense. It’s _insane_. He grabs Tommy’s hand, still fisted in his shirt, and says, “ _You_ call the cops then.”

“ _Jesus Christ,_ ” Tommy hisses. He sounds just as frustrated as Tom feels. He tugs his hand out of Tom’s grip then leans back against the wall and lets out a long, slow breath. “Let’s talk about this later, okay? I’m just... really fucking tired now.”

 _I’m really tired now._ Meaning: I want you to drop this and go away. Or: if I can avoid talking about this, maybe you’ll forget. Tom stares at Tommy, frowning unhappily. He’d dropped it once before, and he’d even forgotten once before. He’s not going to do either again.

“How long are you going to be away?” Tom asks, his mind ticking away steadily.

“I’ll probably be back by Monday.”

“Do you want me to get you anything?”

Tommy starts to lay back down, wincing and huffing slightly as he does. “Could you pour me a couple Advil?” He points to the bottle sitting on the trunk. Tom picks it up and tips a few pills into Tommy’s waiting hand. Tommy swallows them dry then lays flat on his back, eyes already slipping shut.

“I guess I’ll see you on Monday then,” Tom says. He doesn’t move.

“Get out of here, man,” Tommy says softly, eyes still closed. “You’re actually allowed to leave.”

“Okay,” Tom says reluctantly. He picks his bag up and walks back to the stairs. He glances back Tommy. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks as he heads back downstairs. Tommy’s going to be furious with him. Tom just might lose his best friend anyway. But it’s for the best, he tells himself.

 

-

 

Tom lets himself into his house without calling out that he’s home.

He walks into the living room, dumps his bag on the couch then sits down heavily beside it. He drops his head into his hands, scrubs his hands through his hair roughly.

“Tom?” His mom calls from the kitchen. “Is that you, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh good!” His mom says. She walks into the living room a few seconds later, carrying Rachel. “Could you take your sister for a few minutes, I need to—” she stops when she sees his expression. “What’s wrong?”

Tom takes a deep breath. He hesitates, but only for a second. “I need to talk to you,” he says slowly. “It’s about Tommy.”

 

-

 

Tom sits at the kitchen table, cradling a mug of chamomile tea (his mom’s insistence). He listens in silence as the debate goes on between his mom and Martin over what to do.

“It’s _clearly_ an unsafe environment for Tommy and his brother,” his mom is saying.

“I agree,” Martin says in a reasonable tone. “I _agree_ with you, Sarah. I do. But we can’t just drive over there and drag the boy out of the house—”

“Why _not?_ Get him out of there as fast as possible—”

“He’s unwilling to leave, for one—”

“Because he’s scared to death of his father! You heard Tom. If he knew we were willing to take him in—”

“It’s not that simple—”

“We can’t just sit by and do _nothing_.”

Martin pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re not sitting by and doing nothing. We’ve already called child services.”

“And while we wait for them to look into it, Tommy and his brother and his mother will continue to be abused by that— that _man_ that has the gall to call himself a father and a husband,” Tom’s mom spits.

“Sarah,” Martin sighs. He opens his mouth to say something, then seems to think better of it and shuts it. He just sighs again, takes Tom’s mom by the shoulders gently and kisses her forehead. Tom’s mom rests her head against his shoulder. After half a minute, she reaches out to stroke Tom’s hair. Tom leans into her touch immediately.

“He’s been in and out of our house for more than a year,” Tom’s mom says finally. The outrage in her voice has vanished abruptly. To Tom, she just sounds tired and immeasurably sad now. “Over a year and I didn’t suspect a thing.”

“None of us did,” Martin says.

Tom looks down at the table. He bites his tongue so hard he thinks he tastes blood.

 

-

 

Five days later, early Saturday morning, Tom wakes up to the sound of loud, rapid knocking on the front door. He squints at his alarm clock. 7:36. Who the hell comes around at 7:36? Tom rolls over grumpily, fully intending to ignore their inconsiderate would-be visitor, but the knocking continues unabated. Half a minute passes and it’s still going.

Tom groans into his pillow. Martin’s obviously not home – out for his morning walk, most likely. His mom is probably still passed out; Rachel had been fussing well into the early hours of the morning, and his mom had stayed up with her. When the knocking shows no signs of stopping, Tom crawls reluctantly out of bed. He contemplates dragging his blanket with him then decides it will probably just be more effort than it’s worth.

“I’m coming,” he mumbles as he staggers down the stairs and across the hall. He fumbles with the door for a while before he finally remembers that, oh, right, the deadbolt unlocks the other way.

When he opens the door, Tommy is immediately in his face. “ _You called CPS?_ ”

Tom’s suddenly wide awake.

He looks around – no one’s walking around on the street, but he grabs Tommy by the arm and hauls him into the house anyway. He shuts the door, waving at Tommy to be quiet, and says quickly, “Wait. Just— let’s go out to the backyard. Mom and Rach are sleeping. You can yell at me as much as you want in a minute, but just wait until we’re outside, okay?”

Tommy, his face still stark with outrage, nevertheless shuts his mouth at the mention of Rachel. Tom herds him out into the backyard.

The second he shuts the back door, Tommy rounds on him. “A social worker came to our house,” he snaps. Tom wants to ask if he’d told them the truth about his dad. Judging by how furious Tommy is, he’d told them nothing.

“You called _CPS?_ ” Tommy demands when Tom stays silent.

Tom stares down at the ground for a few seconds, his stomach churning with guilt and anxiety. Then he meets Tommy’s irate gaze. “Yes.”

Tommy breathes in sharply, like he’s been sucker punched, before shouting, “Why the _fuck_ did you do that? I told you not to tell anyone! I _told_ you—”

“I’m sorry,” Tom says weakly, his anxiety ratcheting up. “But you couldn’t seriously expect me to keep—”

“Yes, I _did_ —”

“He hurt you so badly you couldn’t come to school!” Tom cuts in desperately. “That’s— what did you expect me to do? What did you expect my mom to do?”

“ _You told your mom?_ ” Tommy’s face twists up. “I expected you to mind your fucking own business! It’s not your problem!”

Tom gapes. “Mind my own—?” Indignant anger overtakes the guilt. “You’re my _best friend,_ you asshole! I’m sorry for not wanting you to wind up dead!”

Tommy shakes his head, still furious. “You want me to end up in a kids’ home? Huh? You’re so fucking _naive,_ Tom. You think it’d be any better for me in the system?”

Tom falters. He hadn’t— he hadn’t thought of that. “I’m sor—” he starts, but Tommy barrels over him, shouting, “ _That’s my fucking family!_ ”

Tom’s defensive anger surges back in a tide. “‘Family’,” he spits, “isn’t a reason to put up with having the crap beaten out of you! He’s your _dad_. He’s supposed to take care of you, not— not—” he gestures at Tommy, at the bruises he knows are still healing beneath the layers of winter clothing.

All of Tommy’s fury seems to drain away abruptly. His voice is dough-soft with fear when he says, “And what happens when me and Brendan get taken away, huh? When he’s left in the house with just my mom? When she’s the only one around when he’s drunk?”

Tom falters again, eyes going wide. “I... you can’t just let him...” is all he manages to say before the guilt chokes him. He stares at the ground, mind whirring desperately. After a minute, he grabs Tommy’s sleeve.

“Come stay with us,” he says. “Come live with us. Tell your mom. My mom and Martin will let you guys stay with us, I know they will, they were talking about it before.” Tommy rears back, startled, but Tom only grips his sleeve tighter and pleads, “You can’t live there.”

Tommy’s face crumples slightly. “I don’t want to live there,” he says softly. “But you saw what happened the last time we tried to leave. He’s not going to let us go.”

“Come live with us,” Tom repeats, trying to make his voice as persuasive as possible. “If he comes after you, we can call the cops.”

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, wavering. “He’ll— he’ll find out again.”

Tom thinks frantically, trying to plan ahead of Tommy’s objections. “Bring your stuff to me at school. I’ll keep it for you. Just— act like everything’s normal until he’s working late at the mill one day, and then just _leave_. We’ll even come and pick you up if we have to.” He meets Tommy’s eyes and prays Tommy sees his sincerity. “Just tell me when and I’ll help you.”

Tommy’s eyes are wide – with fear or hope, Tom isn’t sure. “I don’t know,” he says again. “I... I’ll ask my mom. Just... don’t fucking call CPS again.”

Tom eyes the now faint, yellow-green bruise on Tommy’s jaw. “Okay,” he says quietly.

 

-

 

Just as he’d said, Tommy comes back to school on Monday. Things are awkward between them; not quite normal. Their conversations are stilted, punctuated by uncomfortable pauses and wary glances. But Tom doesn’t apologise, and Tommy doesn’t seem to expect him to.

The next day, Tommy flicks a note over his shoulder and onto Tom’s desk during English. Suddenly, it’s like they’d never argued.

 

-

 

Days pass. Then one week. Then another.

“She said she’ll think about it,” is all Tommy says when Tom asks about his mom, about whether she’ll take them up on their offer. Tom has little choice but to accept that as an answer, even though he knows his mom is already buying extra blankets and pillows. She’s getting ahead of herself, as usual, but he can’t find it in him to stop her. Not over this. He wants Tommy and Mrs. Conlon out of that house as badly as she does. Probably more.

But as the days wear on and Tommy still gives no sign, Tom finds it necessary to start distracting himself. For the first few days he defaults to studying. It’s not like it can hurt, considering midterms are less than a month away. However, on Sunday afternoon, after he realises he’s been reading the same line about the Thermidorian Reaction for fifteen minutes, he decides he needs to do something else.

After a few minutes deliberation, Tom dons his parka, gloves, scarf, and beanie, and shoves his sketchbook into his backpack. He double checks that he has the bus schedule with him, lets his mom know he’ll be back around dinner time, then heads for the bus stop, shoulders hunched against the winter wind.

Since travelling to Tommy’s house, Tom has been slowly familiarising himself with Pittsburgh’s public transport system and, more importantly, with neighbourhoods other than his own and Tommy’s. He’s already mapped out and sketched as much of the North Side – the Mexican War Streets and Deutschtown, mainly – as he dares to on his own; he’s more interested in exploring further out now.

Fifty minutes and one route change later, he’s walking through Squirrel Hill, a neighbourhood with residential areas that feel like an Architecture Styles Through the Ages-style walking tour. Tom notes Edwardian, Victorian and Art Deco houses as he walks, and some houses that might be of the Arts and Crafts style, or possibly Tudor; he’s not entirely sure which.

He wanders aimlessly, pausing periodically to take a stab at drawing things that have caught his eye. He fills six pages of his sketchbook with drawings – sketches of house fronts; perspective drawings of whole streets; close-ups of architraves, arches and, in one case, a widow’s walk. He tries to draw quickly, remembering his grandfather’s advice to sketch cleanly - to convey the essence of an idea rather than get bogged down with the details.

_(“It’s good advice for life too,” his zayde had added afterwards, slapping him on the back merrily._

_Tom had grinned at the time, but he’s never been that great at following good advice, he thinks.)_

He spends so long drawing that his face and fingers go half-numb from the cold. His nose is running a little. But it’s only when he starts squinting in the rapidly fading light that Tom thinks he should start heading home. Sketching was good. Relaxing. He’d spent three hours _not_ thinking or worrying; it’s kind of a rarity nowadays. Tom shoves his sketchbook into his bag reluctantly.

Night has fallen completely by the time he gets back to Forbes Avenue, but that doesn’t mean much, given that it’s winter. Tom’s waiting at the bus stop, trying to figure out if the distant approaching headlights are those of a bus or just a truck when a flicker catches his eye.

Tom gazes a little blankly at the little Gothic Revival house across the street – at the menorah in the front window with its two lit candles. It’s the first night of Hanukkah.

His heart sinks.

Back in Jersey, the first night of Hanukkah had meant gathering at his grandparents’ house with his parents and all the extended family on his dad’s side; it had meant lighting the menorah, and helping his _bubbe_ lay newspaper over the floor to absorb the grease that would fly as she made latkes. It had meant singing the Driedel song with his cousins, and laughing at Uncle Sid as he continued singing Hanukkah songs long after everyone else had stopped. A complicated tangle of shame, resentment and sadness wraps around Tom’s heart and squeezes.

He hasn’t thought about his family in New Jersey in close to a month, but they apparently haven’t been thinking of him at all.

 

-

 

“So... I didn’t see you at the auditions.”

Tom looks up from his algebra revision notes to see Stephanie smiling sweetly at him. His tongue instantly cleaves to the roof of his mouth.

It takes him a few seconds to de-cleave said tongue, by which point Stephanie’s smile has taken on a puzzled cast. “...For _Fiddler on the Roof?_ ” She says helpfully. “The school musical?”

“Uh,” he starts. _Articulate, Hansen._ Really _articulate._ “I— I did say I wasn’t really the musical type.” He hesitates. “...I mean... I _did_ say that, right?” Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d daydreamed the whole exchange, almost a month ago now.

“You did. But I thought maybe you’d change your mind.”

“Oh. Uh, no. No, sorry.”

“It’s a shame, though. I heard you singing,” Stephanie says, smiling again.

Confusion overrides embarrassment. Tom’s brow wrinkles. “How?”

Stephanie cups her hands near her ears, miming headphones. “You sing to yourself when you’re listening to your Walkman.”

Oh _God._ Tom goes red. When Stephanie laughs, his brain stutters for a second.

“No, it was good,” Stephanie assures him. “You were pretty good.”

“I’m not— I’m still not really a musicals sort of guy, though.”

Stephanie shrugs. She’s still smiling, but she’s also giving him a somewhat expectant look again. Tom gazes at her, confused and semi-dazed by her smile.

“...So can I sit down?” Stephanie asks, pointing at the empty seat across from him.

Tom sits up with a jerk. “Uh— yeah! Of course, sorry.” He gathers up his study notes, halting their slow invasion of the neighbouring study tables.

Stephanie sits down. They both go silent as Ms. Soto, the school librarian, trundles past with the book trolley. Stephanie’s smile widens after Ms. Soto passes and Tom smiles automatically back at her. The chill winter air has given her a pretty, red-cheeked look, but Tom is sitting closer to her than he ever has before, and he notices she also has a light dusting of freckles across her nose and cheekbones. Combined with her dark, curling hair, the whole effect is charming. _She’s_ charming, and Tom can feel his palms go a little clammy.

“Did you— do you, uh, want something?” He asks. Ah, shit, no – that just sounded really, really rude. “I mean— is there something I can help you with?” He fidgets with his pencil.

“Actually, I was wondering if you could take a look at my History paper. I know we’re not in the same class, but I heard you had Ms. Tyler last year and you always get good grades so—”

“You—” _you asked about me?_ Tom almost babbles. He’s gripped by the overwhelming urge to— to _giggle,_ and he has to press his lips firmly together to suppress it. Stephanie misunderstands why.

“But... I mean, if you’re busy,” she says, a touch awkwardly, looking at his hastily gathered pile of notes, “I probably should—”

“No!” Tom ducks his head as Ms. Soto swings her head around, trademarked librarian death stare at the ready. “I mean, no, I’m not busy.”

“...You’re sure?” Her gaze is still lowered, looking at his notes.

“Yeah. Yeah, absolutely, I—” Tom shoves the notes into his binder without looking. “I needed a break from studying anyway. It’s— I’d be happy to look at you— I mean, at your essay. Your _essay._ ” _Oh God._

Stephanie breaks into a smile, laughing quietly. “Okay, if you’re sure.” She hands him her essay.

Tom skims it quickly, using the comforting familiarity of studying to gather his wits. Stephanie’s essay is handwritten, but easily legible. Her handwriting is neat and girlish, with large, rounded letters and flicked cursive tails at the ends of words. The essay isn’t bad, but—

“Okay, so... I get the point you’re trying to make with this paragraph,” he says, leaning forward and pointing. “But the statements you make after kind of contradicting that point. I think you’re either going to have to re-work this paragraph or find new sources to back up your argument.” He frowns minutely. “It’s, um. It’s weakening your conclusion a little too,” he adds with an apologetic look.

Stephanie groans. “I knew it.”

“It’s not bad, though,” Tom rushes to say. “It’s a good essay, it’s just—”

“Tom, it’s a terrible essay,” she interrupts, smiling to let him off the hook. Tom’s stomach flips. “History is my worst subject. I just can’t bring myself to be interested in it.”

“If— if you need help studying, I could... well, not that you can’t study on your own, I mean, I’m sure you’re perfectly capable, you just said it’s lack of interest,” Tom babbles. _Jesus, why can’t he stop talking?_ “But— if you want me to look over any other essays or anything, I can... I can do that.”

“Thanks,” she says, brushing a stray lock behind her ear. “That’d be really good. I’d like that.” She smiles shyly. Tom smiles back at her, hopefully not too crazily.

They spend close to an hour talking quietly. After ten minutes, the conversation turns away from her essay, toward music, then books, then New Jersey again; she’s kind of stunned when he says he prefers the beaches in Jersey to the ones in California.

“I don’t know, maybe I’m biased,” he shrugs.

“I’d say you’re _definitely_ biased.”

Tom shrugs again and grins. He’s still feeling somewhat giddy around her, but it’s easing. She’s smiling at him, paying attention to him, and she doesn’t seem to be in a rush to leave; it’s more than a little encouraging. However, when Ms. Soto begins the process of chasing students out and they walk to the bus stop together, further and further away from the comfort zone of the library, Tom’s confidence starts fading.

By the time they reach the bus stop, all his words have dried up. Stephanie’s bus approaches after only a few minutes, but she’s giving him that waiting, expectant look again. Tom has no idea what to say. Well, no, that’s not true. He does know what he wants to say, he just can’t bring himself to say it.

“So...” he starts. And then stops. _Just say it,_ he chides himself. _Eight words: do you want to go out with me?_

Tom opens his mouth then shuts it again. It’s not happening. He wants to punch himself.

“It was nice,” Stephanie says quickly, as the bus pulls up. “Uh, hanging out with you. Maybe we could do it again?”

Tom stares at her. There’s still a little over a week until Christmas, and he doesn’t even celebrate Christmas really, but it feels like Christmas has come early all the same. He grins brightly. “Yeah. That— that sounds great. I. Um. Just let me know when. You’re free. Or whatever.” _Or whatever?_ Jesus.

Stephanie smiles at him over her shoulder as she boards the bus. Tom waves goodbye and manages to actually stop after a few seconds. He waits for the bus to round the corner. Only then does he give into the urge to repeatedly smack his binder against his forehead.

 

-

 

Tom walks into school the next day, intent on finding Tommy before homeroom so he can tell him about his surprise... well, not _date,_ because it wasn’t a date, but his— talk. Yes. His talk with Stephanie. When he spots Tommy standing at his locker, he instantly makes a beeline for him.

“Hey,” he says, bumping his shoulder against Tommy’s companionably. Tommy grins and bumps his shoulder back. Tom opens his mouth to tell him about Stephanie, but Tommy glances past his shoulder and his expression darkens instantly.

Tom blinks. “What’s wrong?”

Tommy doesn’t respond. Tom looks over his shoulder and sees Brendan standing a few feet away, staring pensively at Tommy. Tommy stares back, his eyes flinty and his mouth a hard line. When Brendan takes a few steps toward them, Tommy slams his locker shut and backs away.

“Tommy,” Brendan says. Tommy doesn’t respond. He just shoulders his bag, turns his back on his brother and stalks off down the hallway. Tom looks back and forth between them, frowning.

“Tommy, _come on,_ ” Brendan calls, voice plaintive. Tommy doesn’t stop.

After a beat, Tom says, “Maybe you should leave him alone for a while.” He makes sure to keep his voice carefully neutral.

“I _have_ been leaving him alone. It’s been two weeks—”

“Maybe you should leave him alone for longer.”

Brendan gives him a frustrated glare. “Christ, you too?”

It’s relatively early. They’re mostly alone in the hallway, with most kids still congregating outside before the bell rings. It’s the only reason Tom has no qualms about giving Brendan an unsympathetic look and saying, “You didn’t get the shit beaten out of you. You didn’t watch your mom get the shit beaten out of her. You weren’t even _there_. Can you blame him for being pissed with you?”

Brendan’s mouth tightens. “You— you _do not_ get to fucking lecture me. What do you know about it? I’ve been through all of that, same as him—”

“But you weren’t there when it mattered,” Tom cuts him off ruthlessly, and Brendan’s expression goes stark. They stare at one another for a beat. Then Tom shakes his head. “Just leave him alone.” He walks away without a backward glance.

 

-

 

Brendan leaves Tommy alone until the last day of school before winter break.

Tom spots him first, walking across the cafeteria toward them; Tommy has his back to him, so Tom leans forward and says quietly, “Heads up. Brendan’s coming.”

Tommy immediately starts putting his lunch back in his bag. Brendan’s face registers irritation when he sees what Tommy is doing, and he puts a hand on Tommy’s bag before Tommy can get up. Brendan clears his throat and says, “Look, Tommy—”

“I don’t wanna hear it.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know I don’t want to fucking hear it,” Tommy snaps. He turns in his seat and glares up at his brother.

Brendan scrubs a hand over his face roughly. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just— I’m sorry. I should’ve been there—”

Tommy snorts. “You only just figured that out?”

Irritation flashes across Brendan’s face again, stronger this time. “I’m trying to apologise here—”

“And I already told you I don’t wanna hear it. Twice.”

“If you’d just let me explain—”

“You can apologise and talk as much as you fucking want. It’s not gonna change shit,” Tommy hisses. He yanks his bag out of Brendan’s grip and gets up, knocking his shoulder roughly against Brendan’s as he marches away.

Brendan stares after him but makes no move to follow. After a beat, he turns to look at Tom. Tom shrugs at him. “I told you, man,” he says, tossing his barely eaten lunch into his bag and following Tommy out of the cafeteria.

“Hey,” he says when he catches up with Tommy at the end of the hallway. Tommy makes a monosyllabic sound. Tom glances at him. “Want to go to the Arts wing to eat?”

“Not hungry.”

“Well, come with me anyway. You might not be hungry, but I am,” Tom says casually. Tommy doesn’t reply, but he follows Tom nevertheless. He sits in brooding silence as Tom eats.

Tom leaves him be until he’s done with his sandwich. Only then does he say, “Has your mom been thinking about... you know?” He wads his paper bag up into a ball.

Tommy shrugs. “She’s been thinking about it. But I don’t know what she’ll decide.”

Tom nods, rolling the paper ball around in his hands. “Okay.” He tries not to sigh. Or push.

He glances out the window instead, at the blinding whiteness of the snow outside. He thinks he can hear someone walking around out there, singing Christmas carols. It reminds him there are only three days left until Christmas, just like there’re only three nights of Hanukkah left.

Tom doesn’t want to think about Hanukkah.

“What’re you doing for Christmas?” He asks suddenly.

“Going to Mass. Having family dinner,” Tommy shrugs. “The usual.”

Tom wonders if there’s alcohol at the Conlon Christmas dinners. There probably is, he concludes darkly. The thought of Tommy being trapped in his house with his father – on _Christmas,_ no less –  makes Tom want to scream in frustration. And to make matters worse, Brendan will be there too.

Tom leans back against the wall. “What are you going to do about Brendan?”

“What do you mean, what am I going to do about him?” Tommy asks. His voice and expression are equally flat. “I want shit all to do with him.”

“Well, yeah, but he’s going to be there at Christmas dinner.”

“So?”

“Isn’t it going to be weird? You not talking to him?”

“Not to me. So it’s not my problem.”

Tom’s eyebrows go up in mild surprise. In his extended family, two family members fighting (his parents included) had spelled instant discomfort for everyone else.

Then again, maybe Mr. Conlon will be too drunk to care.

“And you’re assuming he’s even gonna be there,” Tommy says abruptly.

Tom blinks. “You think he won’t go?”

Tommy shrugs, a bitter smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I dunno. If he’s not at school, he’s at his girlfriend’s. Spends most nights there.” His bitter smile grows. “He’s made his choice, no matter what he says, and it wasn’t me and Ma.” He’s silent for a while, and then he mutters, “It fucking sucks.”

This time, Tom does sigh. He leans against Tommy’s shoulder in commiseration. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It sucks.”

 

-

 

Christmas Day is unremarkable. Since neither his mom nor Martin celebrates it, the day becomes a family day instead. Tom’s mom and Martin sit on the couch together, Tom’s mom resting her feet in Martin’s lap, talking and reading. Tom spends the bulk of Christmas morning playing with Rachel on the floor. She’s not quite crawling yet, but she’s lunging, propelling herself along the ground like a land-based butterfly style swimmer.

He experiences an odd melancholic twinge when they go to the local Chinese restaurant for dinner; it’s exactly what he and his parents used to do every Christmas.

Then Rachel discovers she can make noise by whacking her plastic bowl against the tray of her high chair. She laughs so hard she goes silent, and Tom – laughing back and trying to convince her to use her palms to bang the tray, not the bowl – forgets to be despondent.

 

-

 

Christmas is unremarkable, but December 27th isn’t.

His mom wakes him early in the morning, shaking his shoulder insistently and holding the portable phone out to him. Tom takes it, still bleary with sleep, and mumbles what he hopes is an understandable greeting.

“Thomas! _Vi geyt es, motek?_ ” _How are you, sweetie?_

Tom jerks awake. “ _Bubbe_?”

His grandmother laughs. The sound is slightly crackly with static - their portable phone isn’t the best - but it’s definitely his grandmother, still sounding warm, cheery, and so, _so_ familiar. Tom thinks he could almost cry from relief. His eyes definitely water a little, and he scrubs at them as he says, “Why’re you— how did you—?” Then his brain – and his manners – kick into gear.

He smiles, somewhat helplessly, and says, “ _Es geyt gut, a dank. Un dir?_ ” His tongue feels a little clumsy around the syllables. He hasn’t tried speaking Yiddish to anyone in almost two years.

“Not bad, not bad,” his grandmother says, although he’s not sure if she’s referring to how she’s doing or just commenting on his pronunciation. Maybe both. And then she says, voice still comforting warm, “What have you been doing with yourself? Tell me.”

And Tom does, almost tripping over his words, eager to talk to someone from back home. He tells her about Pittsburgh, and about learning to draw its streets – “Like your _zayde_ used to,” she comments, approving. He tells her about Rachel, and school, and – after a moment of shy hesitation – about Stephanie McCray. He tells her about Tommy too, although he stops short of telling her about Tommy’s family life. It’s not his place to talk about it, for one. And, secondly, although his grandmother is wonderful, she has old-fashioned, somewhat narrow-minded ideas about people with bad family lives.

Eventually, however, he runs out of things to say, and the inevitable question slips past his lips. “Why’re you calling now?” It’s a little rude, but Tom only manages to add, “I thought...” before fear of her answer and his fear of confrontation shuts him up.

There’s a beat, and then his grandmother finishes gently, “You thought we’d forgotten about you.”

Tom nods before remembering she can’t see him over the phone. “Yes,” he says quietly.

His grandmother sighs. “Thomas,” she says, before trailing off into silence.

“No one wrote. No one called,” Tom mumbles without heat. His heart speeds up a little as he says, “I sent our address and our phone number to dad. I know I did. It was practically the first thing I did. I even sent it twice because I was worried the first letter didn’t make it. And I wrote to him. Dozens of times.”

His grandmother’s silence rings in his ears.

“...He didn’t give our number to anyone, did he?” Tom says finally. There’s a hot, fierce pressure building in his chest. “He— he acted like we were the ones not talking to him, didn’t he?” It’s typical. It’s _so_ fucking typical—

“He mentioned that you’d sent him your phone number,” his grandmother admits.

“When?” Tom asks. When his grandmother doesn’t reply immediately, he prompts, “This year? At Hanukkah?”

Rather than give a straight yes or no, his grandmother says, “Your father’s had a hard time with things.” Her evasion means ‘yes’.

Tom swallows. Swallows again. He’s not going to start shouting at his grandmother. It’s not her fault his dad is a dick. “It’s been hard for me too,” he says finally. He hates that his voice comes out slightly shaky.

“I’m sorry, motek.”

Tom accepts that wordlessly. He stares out the window for a few moments before asking, “How is he?” His pride stops him from adding anything else.

“He’s well,” his grandmother says. “In body, at least. He misses you.” Tom makes a noncommittal sound. If she thinks that’s going to make him feel sorry for his dad, she’s going to be sorely disappointed. “He loves you,” she tries again.

“He’s got a weird way of showing it.”

Another sigh from his grandmother. “He works long hours. He spends a lot of his time in the office.”

And that, more than his grandmother’s assertion that his dad loves and misses him, makes Tom soften a little. His dad handles problems he thinks he can’t deal with by _not_ dealing with them; by focusing on other things, things he _can_ handle. Tom’s inherited that to some degree.

“He shouldn’t work so much,” Tom murmurs.

“You tell him that.”

Tom balks. His sliver of sympathy – reluctantly formed in the first place – vanishes. “He can call me. Maybe then I’ll tell him that.”

“Thomas—”

“No,” Tom cuts in. “No, _bubbe_. I’m sorry if I sound rude, but I _tried,_ okay? I tried for _months_ , almost a _year_ , to get him to talk to me or write to me. He’s my _dad_. I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t have had to try so hard.”

That gets him yet another sigh from his grandmother; it fills Tom with guilt and resentment both. He’s not trying to be difficult. He’s _not_ , and it’s unfair of her to make him feel like he is. “How is everyone else?” He asks, when the silence goes on a touch too long. “How’s Uncle Sid? How’s Deb? Does she still want to become a doctor when she finishes high school?”

His grandmother takes the cue almost gratefully; she launches readily into a story about how his cousin Deborah is currently appalling her parents by voicing her doubts about going to college.

Tom talks to her long enough that his resentment toward his father fades somewhat. But not entirely. He’s restless after he says goodbye to her; he can’t sit still to read more than a few pages, or draw, or even play video games.

Two fruitless, frustrating hours later, he’s dragging a pair of sweatpants out of his closet, shoving his feet into his sneakers, and hunting for his Walkman. Two minutes after that, he’s sprinting steadily down the street.

Tom doesn’t particularly enjoy sports, and he enjoys being out in the cold even less. But he likes running just fine. He more than likes it right now, actually. He _needs_ it. He focuses on the pound of his feet against the pavement and the burn starting up in his lungs. The winter air almost hurts to breathe in, and he’s got his music up way too loud, but it does the job in crowding out his thoughts.

He runs past street after street, and turns down Benton Avenue toward Marmaduke Playground. He does a lap of the playground then circles back up Termon Avenue to get home. He’s just nearing the bus stop when a bus pulls up, and one passenger gets off – it’s _Tommy._ Surprised, Tom slows down to a walk.

“Hey,” he pants, pulling his headphones off. His breath fogs heavily in the freezing air.

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Since when did you go outside in winter?”

Tom shrugs. “Since today? Being indoors was getting to me.” Before Tommy can ask why, Tom adds, “What’re you doing here?”

Tommy’s expression inexplicably turns a little nervous. He rubs his nose, gaze darting around quickly. Then he blurts, “Ma said yes.”

Tom stares blankly for a few seconds as his brain processes the words. “She said— _really?_ Seriously? That’s great! Tommy, that’s great.” He almost throws his arms around Tommy, before realising that’d probably be weird; he manages to turn it into an enthusiastic punch to the shoulder instead. There’s no controlling his grin, though, and Tom doesn’t even try. He beams at Tommy, huge and relieved.

Tommy’s mouth quirks up in a crooked smile. “Yeah,” he says. “I thought— I figured I’d tell you in person. Couldn’t really say it over the phone, since Pop’s home. The mill’s closed until after New Year’s.”

“We’ve got to tell my mom,” Tom says, already starting up the hill toward his street. “She’s— _God,_ you have no idea how relieved she’s going to be. You have no idea how relieved _I_ am, seriously—”

“I think I might have some idea,” Tommy says dryly. Tom grins at him and slings his arm around his shoulders as they walk.

 

-

 

It doesn’t happen immediately.

Tom’s mom is thrilled with the news – beyond thrilled. But even she realises that Tommy and his mom can’t just move in with the clothes on their backs. So although she’s already bought extra pillows and blankets, she starts compiling a checklist of other things to do and buy, in between putting Rachel down for a nap or feeding her. Tom looks over the list during one such time and silently adds ‘beds’ to the top of the ‘to buy’ list.

The rest of winter break passes with Tommy smuggling things over to Tom’s house – both his mom’s and his own. Some things, like clothes, books, and photos, are easy. Other things aren’t.

“I think I’m gonna have to leave my trophies behind,” Tommy says quietly.

Tom stops in the middle of helping Tommy sort his stuff into temporary storage boxes. He gives Tommy a sympathetic look. He knows how proud Tommy is of them, and justifiably so.

After a moment, Tommy’s mouth twitches up into a smile. “Can’t say it’s not worth it, though,” he says, shrugging.

“What about your medals? You could bring those. And what if you sort the trophies into boxes on the day we come to pick you guys up?”

Tommy looks tempted for a moment. Then he shakes his head slowly. “Maybe some. But it’d take too much time to pack them all. I don’t wanna waste time in case Pop comes home for some reason.” He looks around Tom’s room. “And besides, even if I could bring them all, where would we put them?”

Tom looks around too. He, Martin and Tommy had started rearranging his room in preparation; Tom’s bed and desk have already been shoved to one side of the room. And, even though there’s no bed for Tommy yet, Tom can see what he means. With two beds, two study desks, Tom’s bookshelves, and whatever they’ll be using for Tommy to put his clothes in, space is going to be precious. Still, the thought of Tommy having to leave _all_ his trophies behind just _sucks._

Tom tilts his head. He points at one of his bookshelves. “We could clear off that shelf for some of your trophies. And what about the Theogenes poster? You could roll that up on the day and take it with you.”

Tommy nods and goes back to sorting his stuff into boxes. His expression is unruffled, but Tom’s become relatively well-versed in reading Tommy’s moods. He nudges Tommy in the ribs and smiles. “Hey, at least you’ll have the trophy when you win State.”

Tommy glances at him sidelong and grins.

 

-

 

On Wednesday, 10th of January, Tom grows one year older (almost), and gains a roommate in the form of his best friend.

Fate, Tom thinks, is kind of weird and wonderful.

Tommy and his mom moving in mid-week isn’t ideal. Ideally, they’d be doing this on a Friday, to give everyone a full weekend to adjust. But their plan is dictated by urgency and, moreover, at the mercy of Mr. Conlon’s shifts at the mill. So Wednesday it is.

Tom takes the day off school, even though it’s probably not necessary, and his mom leaves Rachel with their neighbour, promising it will only be for one or two hours, at most. On the drive over, Tom convinces his mom to stay in the car; there won’t be that many bags, he’s sure, and besides, what if Mr. Conlon comes home? Better that she stays in the driver’s seat with the car ready to go, than all of them caught in the house.

Tommy’s out of the house almost the second they pull up and Tom meets him halfway to help with the bags.

“Hi, Mrs. Conlon,” he says past Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy’s mom follows Tommy out at a more sedate pace, her face tense, but she summons up a small smile. Tom wants to tell her how glad he is that she said yes, that he thinks she’s brave. But they can’t dawdle and there’ll be time for that later, so Tom just smiles back and keeps loading bags into the trunk.

There isn’t much. The bags are all small and kind of lumpy; they’d clearly been packed hurriedly, probably holding all the things that could only be packed after Mr. Conlon had left. But there’s also a small cardboard box, and Tom grins when he sees the glint of gold through a gap in the box flaps. It’s nowhere near big enough to be holding all of Tommy’s trophies, but he’s pleased Tommy isn’t leaving them all behind.

For all the fear and worry that Mr. Conlon might – for whatever reason – return home early from the mill, he doesn’t. Mrs. Conlon locks the door behind her, she and Tommy get into the car with Tom, and Tom’s mom drives away. It takes less than an hour, and Tom wonders if they’ve all been building Mr. Conlon up into more of a monster than he really is.

Then he remembers Mrs. Conlon’s too-still face, and the way Tommy hadn’t been able to sit up in bed without wincing. Mr. Conlon isn’t a monster, he decides. He’s just a man, and that’s infinitely more disturbing.

 

-

 

Tom’s mom sends him to pick up Rachel from Mrs. Kittel while she draws Mrs. Conlon toward the kitchen; as Tom leaves, pulling Tommy along with him, he hears her asking if she’d like some tea.

When Tom walks into Mrs. Kittel’s living room, Rachel is sitting on the rug, wide awake. She holds her arms up the instant she sees him, and gurgles happily as he picks her up. She breaks into a smile the second she sees Tommy, and Tommy’s answering smile is just as huge. He seems perfectly content to let Rachel bat her chubby hand against his face, from over Tom’s shoulder, as Tom thanks Mrs. Kittel for looking after her.

Rachel turns out to be the perfect buffer; she gives Tommy and Mrs. Conlon something to focus on, other than the fact they’ll be living in someone else’s home for the foreseeable future. And Rachel’s in fine form, sitting in her high chair and demanding everyone’s attention, acting like a miniature queen in diapers and a hooded baby romperoo.

“Oh, man. I forgot to tell you about this yesterday,” Tom says. He picks Rachel up from the high chair and turns her to face Tommy. “Wave, Rach,” he says clearly. “Wave to Tommy.”

Rachel, proud to show off, half-waves, half-flaps her arm at Tommy. Tommy grins and steals her from Tom.

By the time Rachel grows sleepy and grumpy, holding her arms out insistently for her mom and no one else, Mrs. Conlon seems better at ease. She gets up from the kitchen table, patting both Tommy and Tom on the cheeks, and says she’s going to go rest for a while.

Tom tugs on Tommy’s elbow. “C’mon,” he says. “They finally delivered your bed two days ago. Me and Martin put it together yesterday. Martin says our room looks like a dorm room.” It’s a little weird to say ‘our room’ rather than ‘my room’, but he grins at Tommy as they climb the stairs. “It’ll be good practice for when we room together at PSU, right?”

Tommy smirks. “Who said I was going to room with you?”

Tom elbows him companionably. “ _I_ said so.”

 

-

 

Later that night, Tom’s mom knocks on the door as she heads to bed and tells them to go to sleep too. She hasn’t enforced a curfew with Tom since he was twelve, and Tom wonders with amusement if it has anything to do with Mrs. Conlon being in the house now. He doesn’t argue with her, though – too grateful to her for being so willing to help Tommy and his mom.

He flops onto his bed, face down, after getting changed, but he hears Tommy approach and sits down on the edge of his much more slowly. Their beds are pushed against the same wall, separated by a mere three feet of space; Tom only has to turn his head to look at Tommy as he says, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. “Yeah, it’s just...” he waves around at the room.

“It’s just...?” Tom prompts, when Tommy trails off.

Tommy doesn’t respond immediately. He just shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face, and busies himself getting into bed. He switches off the bedside light as he goes, so Tom spends another minute squinting into the near-darkness, waiting Tommy out.

“What if he shows up?” Tommy says eventually.

Tom doesn’t need to ask who he’s referring to. His first reaction is to say: _we call the cops_ , but it all depends on Mr. Conlon, really. “Then we tell him to leave,” he says, rolling onto his side. “He can’t make you go with him.”

“But he could hit someone. Or he could scare Rachel,” Tommy says, after a few beats of silence. His voice turns brooding. “We put you in a shit fucking position.”

Tom frowns. It’s not as if the thought hasn’t passed his mind too, but— “You’re assuming we’re going to let him into the house. And you’re talking like you forced us to do this. We offered, remember? We wanted to help.”

“I know you did,” Tommy replies. Then, barely audible, he says, “What if he comes and my mom changes her mind?”

“I doubt—” Tom starts, before hesitating. Does he doubt that? He’s only met Mrs. Conlon a handful of times. And although he’s always found her pleasant and funny (and strict), he doesn’t know her. Not like Tommy does. “She wouldn’t, would she?” He settles on saying. “I just— I can’t imagine her doing all of this and then going back to him.”

There’s a long uncertain silence. “...I guess so,” Tommy says finally. Tom can hear him rolling over in his bed.

Tom gnaws on his lip. Tommy hadn’t sounded convinced at all. “If he does show up,” Tom says, hesitant, “if he does get violent... my mom or Martin will call the cops. We’re not just going to let him take you away. Not if you don’t want to go back.” He’s not entirely sure if he’s reassuring Tommy or warning him, but, either way, Tommy needs to know.

Tommy doesn’t respond at all to that.

 _Shit,_ Tom thinks. He doesn’t understand why Tommy would want to protect his father at all, but he knows that Tommy does. What the hell was he thinking, telling Tommy that they’re ready and willing to have his dad arrested? _You’re an idiot, Tom Hansen._

“Okay,” Tommy says abruptly, jolting Tom out of his self-recrimination.

 _Okay?_ Tom thinks. _Okay what?_ Okay, that’s fine by Tommy? Or okay, he understands, but he’s not happy about it? Before Tom can ask, Tommy rolls over again, clearly making an attempt to get to sleep. Tom swallows the question down.

But he’s wide awake now, Tommy’s anxiety seeping into him like bilge water. And as he listens to Tommy toss and turn, it becomes clear that Tommy’s not having much success with sleeping either. They’re going to be completely useless at school tomorrow, Tom thinks.

He glances at his alarm clock, wondering how late it is. 12:42. Tom gazes at the glowing red digits for a while before it clicks. It’s the 11th of January now. He’s been fifteen for forty-two whole minutes.

“Hey,” he says without thinking.

“Yeah?” Tommy says immediately.

Tom smiles wryly in Tommy’s direction. “It’s my birthday.” And he got a roommate as a birthday present. It’s not a bad present, he thinks.

“Happy birthday, Hansen,” Tommy says. The grin in his voice is unmistakable. He sounds wide awake too.

Tom sits up in his bed. “Want to go play video games with the sound turned off?” Neither of them will be sleeping any time soon, and it _is_ his birthday. Surely some allowances can be made.

Tommy laughs quietly. “Sounds good.”

They sneak down to the living room and spend the next few minutes gesticulating and punching one another in the shoulder, arguing silently over what video game to play and who gets which controller. They fall asleep eventually, just as the sky starts to lighten. Tom’s mom finds them in the morning, pressed shoulder to shoulder on the couch and heads lolled toward one another, controllers still clutched loosely in their hands.


	5. Winter, 1996 - Spring, 1996

**Winter, 1996**

As the weeks go by, things change around the house.

Mrs. Conlon takes over cooking, much to Tom’s wide-eyed delight. He loves his mom fiercely, but she’s never been the best at cooking. Tom’s mom, for her part, seems to relinquish kitchen duty gracefully and gratefully. However, it’s only following a long, _completely_ civil argument with Mrs. Conlon (one that paradoxically has Tom tensing up with anxiety), that Tom’s mom ends up relinquishing the majority of the housework to Mrs. Conlon too.

(“She knows she doesn’t have to do that, right?” Tom had said to Tommy later, slightly fretful. “We didn’t offer to let you guys stay so we could get free housekeeping.”

“Ma’s not really comfortable with taking charity,” had been Tommy’s reply. Tom thought the same could probably be said for Tommy.)

But having Tommy and Mrs. Conlon living with them yields another unexpected boon for Tom: his mom no longer automatically turns to him as Rachel’s default babysitter. It’s an absolute god send in the run up to midterms, as Tom funnels the majority of his free time into studying, and Tommy spends almost as much time avoiding studying. And although Tom inevitably has to take Rachel away at some point – since Tommy _does_ need to study but apparently has a complete inability to say ‘no’ to Rachel – Tom thinks the arrangement works out pretty well.

There are new routines to get used to, too.

Tom gets used to being woken up every Sunday morning by Mrs. Conlon knocking on the door, telling Tommy he needs to get ready for church. He grows used to hearing Tommy stumble out of bed to have a shower, before staggering back into the room to get dressed. He even gets used to the (extremely) polite discussion that takes place every Sunday between Mrs. Conlon and his mom, as his mom insists they borrow the car rather than take the bus, and Mrs. Conlon politely refuses. So far, it’s been three wins for Mrs. Conlon and two wins for his mom.

One week into February, however, Mrs. Conlon alters the routine out a little.

Tom wakes up when Mrs. Conlon knocks on the door, same as usual. He rolls over as Tommy heaves himself out of bed; he rolls over again, dragging a pillow over his head, when Mrs. Conlon returns after half an hour to collect Tommy. But rather than leaving immediately, as Tom has grown accustomed to hearing, Mrs. Conlon pauses at the door and says, “You’re more than welcome to join us if you wish, Tom.”

_Wait, what?_

Tom pulls the pillow off his head and stares blearily at Tommy and Mrs. Conlon, both dressed in their Sunday best. He’s not entirely sure he heard her correctly. “Uh...” is all he gets out.

“Ma,” Tommy says, sounding slightly embarrassed. “Tom’s Jewish.”

There’s a pause, then Mrs. Conlon looks at Tom says, “I’d been led to believe your family wasn’t practicing.” Her tone is only faintly apologetic, but unfailingly polite.

Tom sits up, scraping his hair out of his eyes. He blinks at her for a few seconds. “Uh. We’re not.”

Mrs. Conlon gives Tommy a look that seems to say _well, there you go_. Tommy still looks embarrassed.

Tom rubs the back of his neck, considering. Part of him is curious. He’s never been inside a church. All his friends in New Jersey had come from either Jewish or secular families. But Mrs. Conlon doesn’t seem like she’d be content with Tom coming along just to satisfy his intellectual curiosity.

“I... maybe another time,” he says, blinking sleep out of his eyes. “Um, you’ll probably end up late if you wait for me.”

“Yeah, we should probably get going,” Tommy says firmly. He doesn’t _quite_ usher his mother away. A short while later, Tom hears the car start and back out of the driveway. It’s now three all for his mom and Mrs. Conlon, apparently.

-

 

Tom is wide awake and five chapters into _The Golden Compass_ by the time Tommy and Mrs. Conlon come back from church. Given the conversation earlier this morning, Tom thinks it’s kind of funny that he’s reading it now.

Tommy doesn’t come upstairs immediately. He never does on Sundays. Instead, he spends at least half an hour with his mom, sitting out on the back porch with her. Tom has never interrupted them, and he doesn’t this time either, so he’s another four chapters into the book before Tommy walks into the bedroom.

“Jesus, man. Don’t you ever stop studying?” Tommy asks, staring at Tom’s novel.

“I know this may come as a shock, but some of us actually read for fun,” Tom says mock-gravely. “And wow, blaspheming less than an hour after coming back from church? That’s gotta be a record.” He dodges Tommy’s swat with a grin.

Tommy drops down onto his own bed then says, “Sorry about my ma before.”

Tom shrugs. “It’s no big deal. It’s not like she was throwing a bible at me or something.”

The mental image seems to make Tommy smirk. “She’s gonna keep asking you to go now. You didn’t tell her no, you just said ‘maybe another time’.”

“So it’ll be like all the times my mom keeps trying to convince you to go to therapy.”

“I don’t need to go to therapy,” Tommy says automatically.

“Tell my mom that, not me.”

“I _do_ tell her that.”

It’s true; Tom knows Tommy has, just like he knows his mom won’t give up on suggesting it. “I wouldn’t mind going to church with you guys at least once,” he says. “Just to see what it’s like.”

Tommy gives him an incredulous look. “Just to see what it’s _like_?”

“Yeah. You know. To see what the differences are between church and temple. Synagogue,” he clarifies, just in case Tommy isn’t familiar with Reform Judaism. “Plus some churches have pretty incredible architecture,” he adds, grinning.

Tommy snorts. “Well, the architecture of our church isn’t anything special. And my ma will think she can get you to convert if you go.”

Tom laughs. “Who knows? Maybe I will.” He doubts it, though. He’d been raised Jewish and, even though he’s not practicing now, the thought of converting feels... weird. And then, as so often happens with his brain, part of him says: _but why?_

Tom taps his book thoughtfully against his knee. Why _does_ the thought of converting feel weird? He knows the differences between Judaism and Christianity, but still. He’s not practicing. His mom’s an atheist. Why does it feel weird?

Curious now, and not just about what the inside of a church looks like, Tom turns to Tommy and asks abruptly, “Do you believe in God?”

It’s only after Tommy blinks at him that he realises the question might be somewhat invasive. “You don’t have to answer,” Tom says quickly. “I get that religion can be a personal thing. It was just... y’know. Idle curiosity.”

“You’re always curious,” Tommy says, amused. “And I think my ma would rather be having this conversation with you.”

“I already know your mom believes in God. I wanted to know if _you_ believe in God.”

Tommy stares up at the ceiling. “I guess so,” he says.

“You guess so?”

“Well, do _you_ believe in God?” Tommy asks, turning the question back on him.

Tom tilts his head, thoughtful. “I don’t... _not_ believe in God,” he says slowly, carefully picking his way along his thoughts. “My mom’s an atheist, but I don’t think I am. I think there’s something out there that means we’re destined to meet... certain people.” It’s the closest he’s ever come to admitting he believes in soul mates, and he smiles wryly, adding, “I don’t know if the way I see God is the way any religion teaches it, exactly. But I think that there’s... something. Other than that, I don’t know.”

“Mm,” Tommy says. After a beat he says, “I mainly go to church because Ma wants me to.”

“Would you go if she didn’t tell you to?”

Tommy shrugs. “Dunno. Probably not.” They both lapse into silence for a while before Tommy suddenly says, “It confuses me sometimes.”

Tom glances at him. “What, church?”

“Sort of.” Tommy keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling, expression pensive. “It’s just... Father Kirk. He had to know about... about my dad. But he didn’t do anything about it. I don’t get how someone who’s supposed to represent Christ could know what was going on and just— do nothing.”

Tom looks down at his hands, frowning. “I think,” he says slowly, “there’s a difference between believing in God and believing in religion.”

“Maybe,” Tommy says. “But I believe there’s something out there, same as you.” He smiles, crooked and slightly wry. “I mean, I met you, didn’t I?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what if Ms. Tyler had paired people up by last name? Or if we weren’t even in the same class? We never would’ve met. None of this—” he gestures at Tom, at their room, “—would’ve happened. There’s gotta be something out there that meant for us to meet, right?”

Tom sits back, blinking. He’s only ever thought about destiny in terms of soul mates, and love. And while he still believes that to be true, he wonders if maybe he’s been thinking about it too narrowly all these years. “You make a good point,” he says thoughtfully.

 

-

 

Toward the end of wrestling season, Tommy goes to his first tournament without his dad.

Tom goes with him, as does Mrs. Conlon, and Tom’s mom and Martin. They even bring Rachel along in a front carrier.

Tommy wins match after match, and Tom keeps a mental tally of how many so Tommy can add them to the Theogenes poster later. At the end of the tournament, Tommy’s undefeated record holds strong. Tom punches him in the shoulder in congratulations, Mrs. Conlon embraces Tommy, beaming proudly, and Tom’s mom holds Rachel out so she can give Tommy a messy baby kiss to the cheek. Tommy accepts it all with an easy grin and seemingly confident stride.

But later, when they’re alone in their room, he says abruptly, “I need a trainer.”

Tom looks up from his sketchbook to see Tommy laying on his bed, hands folded behind his head. He looks relaxed, save for the fact he’s frowning deeply. Tom sits back, considers him carefully. Tommy had said ‘a trainer’, but Tom’s pretty sure he’s thinking of one trainer in particular. He tries to clamp down on the sudden stab of anxiety in his gut.

“Do you really need one?” He asks. “You won all your matches today.”

“I almost conceded a point in two different matches,” Tommy replies. “And I won one of them after a _third_ period.” _That never happens,_ his tone says. And it’s true. At every match Tom had attended before today, Tommy had always won by the first or second period.

Tom chews his lip nervously. “You’re not... you’re not thinking about asking your dad to—”

“No,” Tommy says, far too quickly. Tom frowns at him.

“Is there someone else you can train with?” _Please tell me there’s someone else._ “Maybe an old trainer?”

“I’ve never trained with anyone else, you know that,” Tommy says. Tom does know that, but he’d been hoping nonetheless. “And I don’t wanna train with someone I’ve never met. They won’t know me or the way I wrestle,” Tommy adds.

“What about when you wrestle for PSU? You’ll be training with someone new then.”

“That’s college. That’s different.”

Tom doesn’t see how. _You can’t train with your dad,_ he wants to tell Tommy. Well, more like command him. But what right does he have to tell Tommy not to do something? He’s Tommy’s best friend, but that doesn’t mean he gets to have a say in this.

“There has to be someone else you know,” he says finally. “You might not have trained with anyone else, but you must at least know some people.”

Tommy frowns and taps the side of his foot nervously against the bed. After a minute he says slowly, “I guess I could ask Mr. Stansfield.”

Tom nods encouragingly. Mr. Stansfield is the coach of Perry’s wrestling team. Tom’s never had a reason to talk to the man beyond a few polite hellos and good mornings, but surely anyone is better than Tommy’s dad – that man is _toxic_.

“Ask Mr. Stansfield on Monday,” Tom says. Tommy nods, still gazing pensively into space.

-

 

Tommy asks Mr. Stansfield on Tuesday, not Monday, if he can practice alongside Perry’s wrestling team. It’s too late for him to actually join the wrestling team this year – they’ve almost moved into the off season – but Mr. Stansfield welcomes him with a smile, a clap on the shoulder and an, “Of course, son.”

Off season training, as far as Tom can tell, amounts to a lot running, weight lifting, and some practice wrestling. But Tommy is nevertheless back on a regular training schedule – Monday to Friday, plus his own workout on Saturday – and it has an unexpected consequence for Tom: he ends up alone and bored at home. Often.

It’s not like Tom doesn’t have other friends. He has friends in French club and from his art class, and he hangs out with them often enough. He probably has more in common with them than he does with Tommy. But he’s always spent the bulk of his time with Tommy and the change requires yet another adjustment.

Tom tries to use the alone time productively. It’s not like he gets a lot of it, living in a shared bedroom. But there’s only so much homework, revision, guitar practice, and, well, jerking off Tom can do before he inevitably grows bored again.

Three weeks or so after Tommy starts training with the school wrestling team, Tom is sitting on the living room floor, debating whether he really wants to beat his head against _Contra_ for a few hours, when Mrs. Conlon walks in.

“Tom,” she says, voice caught somewhere between amused and exasperated.

“Yes?” Tom says, Mrs. Conlon’s presence sharpening his manners from the usual _‘yeah?’_ he might have given his mom.

Mrs. Conlon looks at the game cartridges scattered around him then at the blank TV. She shakes her head and says, “Pack that up and come with me.”

Puzzled, Tom nevertheless obeys and follows her into the kitchen. Mrs. Conlon moves around the counter, picks up a knife and starts slicing carrots. “Do you know how to cook at all, Tom?”

Tom blinks. “Uh, no?”

Mrs. Conlon slants an amused glance at him. “Are you guessing?”

Tom runs a hand through his hair and laughs. “No. No, I don’t know how to cook.”

“Well, you should,” she says firmly. “You won’t be living at home forever, and you’re skinny enough as it is.” She points to the fridge. “Could you bring me the celery?”

“What are you making?” He asks as he returns from the fridge.

“Casserole. And it’s what _you_ will be making,” she corrects. Tom gives her an incredulous look, but all she says is, “There’s no better time to learn than now.”

She’s giving him something to do, he realises sheepishly. And though he’s pretty sure he’s going to screw it up royally, he takes the knife she points at and starts slicing the vegetables inexpertly. Mrs. Conlon watches for half a minute then reaches out to correct his grip.

“Curl your fingers,” she says, demonstrating. “Better to cut your knuckle than the tip of your finger off.” Tom tucks his fingers inward experimentally. Mrs. Conlon nods. “Good. Better.”

Mrs. Conlon is a good cook, and she turns out to be equally good at teaching. She explains things methodically, unlike Tom’s mom, who tends to go off on tangents. And, to Tom’s surprise, she’s talkative. He isn’t entirely sure why he’d expected her to be quiet. Maybe because she’d been relatively quiet the few times he’d gone over to Tommy’s house. But here, away from that house, she’s positively chatty.

Tom learns that Tommy was a brat when he was a kid (“What’s changed?” Tom asks, before dodging her playful swat), and he learns that she’d always wanted children, but being a mother hadn’t been all she’d wanted to be. She’d loved acting when she was young, she tells him, and she’d dreamed of being an actress.

She’s incredulous when Tom recognises some of her favourite films, and she laughs when Tom says he’s watched some of them. She’s less than impressed, however, when she learns he’d first watched _The Graduate_ when he was eleven years old.

“Who let you watch that?” She fusses. “It’s hardly appropriate for a fifteen year old boy to watch, let alone an eleven year old.”

Tom refrains from saying his mother had never discouraged him him from watching or reading anything he wanted; he’d watched _A Clockwork Orange_ and _Lolita_ when he was eleven too.

(“If you don’t stop reading or watching something after it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll worry more about your common sense than about you being potentially traumatised,” was all his mom had to say about it.)

And, somewhat unsettlingly for him, he learns that life with Mr. Conlon - Paddy, Mrs. Conlon calls him - hadn’t always been abusive. He’s not sure how he feels about that. On the one hand, he’s glad she wasn’t abused for the entirety of her marriage. On the other hand, it’s harder to hate Mr. Conlon when he’s reminded of how funny and charming he can be.

As the casserole simmers, Tom remembers what he’d wanted to say to her, that first night. “Mrs. Conlon?”

She raises her eyebrows, amused. “You can call me Irene, Tom.”

Irene? Tom’s brow furrows. He’s never called an adult by their first name before. And although Tom’s mom had immediately told Tommy to call her Sarah, Tom had never considered doing the same with Mrs. Conlon. Well... Irene.

“Irene,” he says slowly, testing out the syllables. It feels weird. It’ll require some getting used to. He fiddles with a bit of carrot peel then blurts, “I’m really glad you said yes. To... to living with us, I mean. And not just for Tommy. But for you too.”

Tom hesitates, wondering if he might be overstepping, but— ah, screw it. “You deserved better than what you got. I’m not saying your life was crap or anything,” he hastens to add, “But— just. That shouldn’t have happened to you. I’m sorry it did.” _Jesus, did that even make sense?_

Mrs. Conlon – _Irene,_ he tells himself, _call her Irene_ – just looks at him for a while. She’s not pissed – or, at least, Tom doesn’t think she is. But the expression on her face is complicated – pleased, tired and unhappy all at once. The look fades after a moment and she pats his cheek, smiling faintly. “You’re a good boy,” she says.

Tom considers that. “No, I think I’m just a nice boy.”

Irene slants a wry glance at him. “Is that right?”

“Yep. Good boys don’t watch _The Graduate_ when they’re eleven years old,” Tom says, grinning.

Irene gives an unladylike snort. In that moment, her resemblance to Tommy has never been stronger. “Cheeky,” she says, patting his cheek again. “And I think you’re both, watching inappropriate films or no. Now go on, shoo. Find something else to do. But remember to come back and check on the casserole. I won’t check for you,” she warns. Tom smiles at her before heading upstairs.

After that, cooking with Irene becomes a regular thing. Tom’s still not convinced on the merits of attending church, but he can’t argue with the merits of being able to feed himself.

 

-

 

**Spring, 1996**

Although Tom adjusts to having Tommy and Irene in the house - he loves having them in the house, to be honest - not everything goes perfectly. He’s never really thought of himself as possessive or privileged before (although some of his cousins _have_ called him spoiled in the past), but, living day to day with Tommy, he starts to realise he kind of _is_.

Tommy doesn’t exactly help. He has an almost pathological disregard for boundaries; he moves Tom’s stuff around, borrows things without asking, and invades Tom’s personal space regularly. And after almost two months, it _gets_ to Tom.

When Tommy reaches past him to grab his Walkman, Tom snaps, “What’re you doing?”

Tommy stops, his hand hovering inches above the Walkman. He blinks at Tom. “Uh— I was gonna borrow this. That a problem?”

Tom starts to bite out that _yes, it_ is _a problem,_ but Tommy’s open surprise gives him pause. Still, he can’t stop his mouth from pursing a little as he says, “No, it’s just— you could, you know... _ask_.”

“You weren’t using it,” Tommy says slowly.

Tom frowns. “Yeah, but... it’s mine.”

Tommy frowns back at him, seemingly equally confused. He takes his hand away and shrugs. “Okay. Whatever.”

Tom leans back in his seat to look up at Tommy. “Didn’t you ask Brendan before you took his stuff?”

“No, not really,” Tommy shrugs, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “Most of the stuff was ours.”

“Didn’t that drive you insane?”

“No,” Tommy says with another shrug. “It’s been like that since I was born.”

Tom wonders if it’s because Tommy’s the younger brother. He wonders if Brendan had gone quietly insane while Tommy constantly took his stuff and invaded his space. Then again, Brendan wouldn’t have been any older than two when Tommy was born. He probably couldn’t remember a time when he _didn’t_ have to share, same as Tommy. Tom makes a face at the thought. He can’t imagine sharing everything. He’s having enough trouble sharing _some_ things.

“Am I pissing you off?” Tommy asks, looking at Tom’s face carefully.

Tom slumps back in his seat. His eyes are starting to ache from reading and his hand cramps annoyingly whenever he grips his pen. “No,” he says, rubbing the heel of his hand against one eye. “Well... sort of. Maybe, yeah.” He waves his free hand absently.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Tom jerks upright, startled. He pivots in his seat to level an alarmed stare at Tommy. “ _No,_ ” he says sharply. “No, I don’t want you to leave, it’s just— I don’t know. I’m not used to... sharing, I guess.” He goes a little red as he realises just how spoiled that sounds. But surely he’s not _that_ much of an ass that Tommy would believe he’s having second thoughts?

Tommy stares at him. “I meant... go downstairs or something,” he says slowly. “Give you some space. Not... leave.”

“Oh.” Tom scratches his nose, embarrassed. “...Is that what you used to do with Brendan? If he needed space?”

“We usually just wrestled if we were pissed at each other.”

Tom snorts. He can imagine how that turned out – Brendan pinned beneath Tommy and even _more_ pissed off. “I’m not going to wrestle with you,” he says dryly.

Tommy smirks. “Coward.”

“Ass.”

Tommy leaps up from his bed. He gets an arm around Tom and hauls him up, only to tackle him back down onto his bed. “Come on, just one time,” he says. “I’ll even let you win.”

He’ll _let_ —? Tom bursts out laughing. Tommy’s such an arrogant shit. Justifiably so, but an arrogant shit nonetheless.

And even though he knows he’s beyond outmatched, Tom gets his arms up and starts grappling, trying to roll Tommy over. Tommy smirks and resists, flipping him back and forcing his arms down. He keeps resisting for long enough that Tom starts breathing harder and his muscles begin to ache, unused to this sort of exertion. He hooks a leg around the back of Tommy’s knee and shoves upward again, attempting another roll.

All of a sudden, Tommy stops resisting, goes pliant; Tom’s momentum sends him up and over. He ends up straddling Tommy, his hands pinning Tommy’s shoulders against the mattress. Tommy grins up at him.

Tom grins back. “Happy now?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says. There’s a beat and then he says, in an entirely different tone, “Thank you.”

Tom quirks an eyebrow and clambers off, dropping down onto the bed beside him. “For what? Wrestling with you?”

Tommy shakes his head. “For taking me in. I don’t know if I ever said that.”

“Oh.” Tom blinks. “I— well. You’re welcome, I guess.” He fiddles with his blanket for a second then shrugs and looks over at Tommy with a half-smile. “You’re my best friend, man. What else was I going to do?”

“Nobody ever did anything before you.”

Tom frowns. It isn’t right that no one had. It isn’t _fair_. He plucks at his blanket again, tugging roughly at a loose thread. “Someone should have,” he mutters.

“Well, no one did,” Tommy says. “So thank you. For that.”

Tom nods, unsettled. “You’re welcome,” he says. He doesn’t know what else to say. They’re both quiet for a minute before Tom looks up, smiling slightly awkwardly, and says, “Want to go check out what’s out at the movies?”

Tommy smiles. “Yeah. I wanna see something with explosions.”

Tom shakes his head. “Explosions _and_ plot?” He has his doubts, but he lives in hope.

“And or,” Tommy shrugs. “I’m easy.”

Tom smirks. “The girls at school would love to hear you say that.”

Weirdly, Tommy flushes a little. “Shut up.”

Tom knocks his shoulder against Tommy’s as he gets up. “First Brendan, now you.”

Tommy shoves him back. “They look at you too, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” Tom says, skeptical and wry. “Not the way they look at you.” He does his best (well, alright, slightly exaggerated) impression of the wide-eyed, almost thunderstruck look girls tend to get around Tommy.

“Asshole,” Tommy laughs as he heads downstairs.

They end up sneaking in to watch _12 Monkeys_. Amazingly, Tom’s prayer for explosions with plot is answered.

 

-

 

Tom may have been exaggerating about the look girls get around Tommy, but not by much, he thinks. Tommy’s almost sixteen now, and the attention he’s been getting from girls has practically quadrupled.

The attention has changed in nature too. It’s not just staring and giggling anymore, although there’s plenty of that too – once word had gotten out that Tommy was training with the school wrestling team, practice matches suddenly took place with a small audience in attendance.

But girls are also finding excuses to talk to Tommy now, to brush up against him in hallways, or bend over near him in class. It’s kind of unbelievable, and made even more so because Tommy is _so_ unruffled by it most of the time. Then again, if he’s been able to have his pick of girls for years, Tom supposes it only makes sense that girls don’t faze him.

He’s never asked Tommy outright if he’s had sex before, he’s pretty sure Tommy has. The few times he’s edged around the topic with him, Tommy’s replies have always been nonchalant. He talks about sex like it's no big deal, and it never fails to make Tom feel like he’s far younger than fifteen. The closest Tom has gotten to sex is touching Christina Reyes’ breasts in eighth grade; he’d been surprised to discover that breasts were soft.

He definitely doesn’t mention that to Tommy.

And even if he _did_ talk about sex openly with Tommy, Tom isn’t certain they’d see eye to eye on it; Tommy’s nonchalance weirds him out. Tom has always thought about sex the same way he thinks about falling in love: that it has to happen with the right person and that, when it does, things will just... fall into place.

But he’s been getting the impression – not just from Tommy, but from listening to other guys as well – that that’s not the norm. Or at least, it shouldn’t be the norm for guys. The general consensus seems to be that guys should want to get laid as soon as possible, and as often as possible. Tom’s body - or at least his _dick_ – seems to agree. And Tom has _no_ idea what to think about that.

He grows hard sometimes, suddenly and indiscriminately. It happens far more often than it used to. But that’s not what bothers him; he’s flicked through sex ed books before, he knows random erections happen. But he’s not sure how to reconcile his sudden, sometimes almost overwhelming desire to have sex with his desire for love; for romance.

And should he even _want_ romance? Not according to the guys in the locker room. That’s girly, Harlequin novel pussy bullshit. Tom thinks they’re wrong, but he doesn’t say so. He’s had the labels _sissy_ and _pussy_ levelled at him often enough, throughout middle school and now in high school as well; he doesn’t particularly feel like inviting more by talking about waiting for love.

 

-

 

“Hey,” Brendan says.

Tommy jerks to a halt, but only because Brendan has stepped directly into his path. The crowd of students flows around them like water – muttering, grumbling water, pissed off at the assholes standing in the middle of the hallway. There are only a few curious, lingering looks, however, because seeing Brendan and Tommy engaged in a standoff has become standard over the past few months.

As far as Tom can tell, no one actually knows what happened, although it’s somehow become common knowledge that Tommy now lives with him. Tom had spent days brushing off the questions and rumours as to why – so had Tommy – until people finally lost interest.

But all the deflection in the world can’t hide the fact that Tommy apparently hates his older brother.

Everyone knows the pattern by now: Brendan will find Tommy between classes or at lunch and try to talk to him. Tommy will either ignore Brendan or snap at him endlessly, until Brendan gives up and goes away. Brendan will leave Tommy alone for a few days. And then he’ll try again. And so on _ad infinitum_.

Tom understands why Tommy is furious with his brother. He even thinks Tommy’s resentment is justified, and part of him resents Brendan on Tommy’s behalf. But another part of him – the part that had spent more than a year writing to his father and received nothing but silence – can’t help but feel sympathy for Brendan. It makes him stay when Tommy and Brendan argue, and it makes him urge Tommy hear Brendan out, no matter how furious Tommy gets with him.

 _He’s trying,_ Tom wants to say. _Do you even realise how much he must care about you that he’s still trying to talk to you after all this time?_ He doesn’t say it, though. He knows Tommy wouldn’t – _doesn’t_ – see it that way. Brendan hadn’t been there when he knew Tommy and Irene needed him, and that’s that.

“Tommy, I'm—”

“You’re what? Sorry?” Tommy interrupts. He sounds like he’d been gearing himself up for a fight before Brendan had even opened his mouth. “You’ve said that. About a dozen fucking times.”

Brendan takes a deep breath, but Tommy charges on before he can get anything out. “What do you even fucking _want_? You want me to say that it’s okay? You want me to forgive you? Well, it’s not, and I don’t.”

Brendan’s jaw works furiously for a few seconds. “Fine,” he bites out. “I won’t try to apologise anymore. Okay?”

“Fine by me,” Tommy mutters.

“That’s not why I stopped you today, anyway.” Brendan shoves his hands into his pockets then blurts, “I got into UPenn.”

Tommy’s expression is flat. “Congratulations.”

That makes Brendan huff and shake his head. “You know, for once, I...” he starts, before trailing off. He glares at some point past Tommy's shoulder.

“For once you what?”

“Nothing. You wouldn’t understand.” Brendan glances at Tommy. “UPenn’s in Philadelphia,” he says after a beat.

“Oh yeah? Well, I hope you have a fucking great time there.”

Brendan looks like he’s holding onto calm by his fingertips. Tom eyes him warily. “I'm going to be leaving before this year is over,” Brendan says. “I thought maybe we could talk before then. I thought maybe you’d want to, before—”

“You thought wrong,” Tommy says, unmoved.

“Christ,” Brendan hisses, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You’re acting like I’m worse than Pop. I fucked up, Tommy. I fucked up _once_ —”

“Yeah, you fucked up just once, but me and Ma paid for it, not you—”

“How was I supposed to know that—”

“You knew we were leaving!” Tommy shouts. Brendan shuts up, but Tommy keeps going. “You knew and you still bailed on us. You’re not worse than Pop, but you’re still pretty fucking bad.”

Brendan looks down, but Tommy isn’t done. He smiles suddenly, cold and sharp. “You know what, Bren?” He says, voice falsely cloying. “I’m happy for you. UPenn’s perfect for you. All the way in Philly, far away from anyone who might actually need you.”

Brendan’s expression darkens.

Tom sucks in a breath. “Tommy, come on,” he says quietly. Tommy’s resentful gaze swings his way. “Just hear him out.”

Tommy looks at him like he’s betrayed him. “I don’t have to fucking listen to—”

“Well, that’s typical,” Brendan cuts in, no longer trying for conciliatory.

Tommy zeroes back in on him immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t have to listen, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. It’s always about _you,_ isn’t it?” Brendan mocks. He sounds like he’s wanted to say it for years. “It’s all about what happens to _you,_ about what _you_ want—”

“Jesus, what happened to wanting to talk?” Tom says, staring at Brendan incredulously, but Brendan barrels over him, glaring at Tommy.

“—You're such a self-centred little shit, you always have been—”

Tommy punches him in the face.

“ _Shit,_ ” Tom yelps, dodging out of the way as Brendan reels backward.

Brendan rights himself quickly, expression furious, and launches himself at Tommy. Tom backs away further, eyes wide. They aren’t just shoving at one another, like he and Tommy sometimes do when they argue. They’re actually _fighting_ – going for gut punches, kneeing one another, grappling and slamming each other into the lockers. Tom isn’t sure he can get between them. He isn’t even sure he _dares_ to.

They’re definitely not being overlooked anymore. There’s a cacophony of hooting, catcalling, and the stereotypical chant of _fight, fight, fight_ has started up. Tom looks around anxiously. _Any second,_ he thinks. Any second now, a teacher is going to burst through the crowd of students, and then Brendan and Tommy will both be screwed.

Tommy grabs Brendan around the waist, drags him to the ground. When he straddles him and hauls his fist back, Tom darts in. He gets his arms around Tommy’s chest and drags him off, staggering a little as Tommy resists.

“Will you _quit it_?” He hisses as Tommy lunges forward again. He barely manages to keep his arms locked around him. “We’re at school. We’re in the fucking _hallway._ You’re going to get in trouble, get a grip.”

Tommy stops abruptly, breathing hard. After another second, he yanks at Tom’s arm. Tom lets go cautiously, but Tommy doesn’t try to lay into his brother again.

Tom risks a glance at Brendan. To his relief, Tess has appeared from somewhere and is kneeling beside him, one hand on his chest and another on his shoulder. She’s speaking quickly and fiercely in his ear. Whatever she’s saying, it’s calming Brendan down.

“What’s going on?”

Tom looks up to see Mr. Stansfield pushing his way past the onlookers. Mr. Stansfield stops at the edge of the crowd and looks back and forth between Brendan and Tommy. Tommy avoids his gaze as Brendan picks himself up slowly, Tess rising with him.

“Nothing, sir,” Brendan says.

“Nothing, Coach,” Tommy chimes in. Brendan glances over sharply at ‘coach’.

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

“We were just playing around,” Brendan says after a beat. “Celebration wrestling. I told Tommy I got into UPenn.”

Mr. Stansfield raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Is that so? Well, let’s try and keep the celebration to handshakes and pats on the back.” He points at Tommy. “Save the wrestling for training.”

Tommy nods.

“Okay then,” Mr. Stansfield says, clapping his hands. He raises his voice. “And I’m sure the rest of you have classes to go to. You’ve got one minute to get moving, before I start handing out detention slips like candy.” He starts ushering students away.

Tommy leans down and picks up his dropped backpack. He slings it over his shoulder, resolutely avoiding both Tom and Brendan’s eyes.

“I gotta get to class,” he mutters to Tom. “I’ll see you at lunch.” He walks off without waiting for a reply.

Tom watches him go then turns back to Brendan. “I’ll— I’ll try and talk to him,” he says quietly.

“Don’t bother,” Brendan says, picking up his bag. “He’ll just end up pissed off at you too.” Tess rubs his shoulder comfortingly and Brendan leans into the touch, seemingly unaware he’s doing it.

Tom nods reluctantly. He starts to walk to class, before pausing and turning back. “Congratulations,” he says sincerely. “On getting into UPenn.”

Brendan summons up a small smile. It’s faint, but it’s a smile. “Thanks.” He loops an arm around Tess’ shoulders and walks away.

 

-

 

Tom pays no mind to what Brendan had said – that talking to Tommy about Brendan will only piss him off. He’s still determined to talk to Tommy about it anyway. But just as he sits down across from Tommy and opens his mouth, bedlam descends, in the guise of Tommy’s wrestling team mates. There are three of them, and they’re all hooting and whooping loudly as they drop into the empty seats beside Tom and Tommy without waiting for permission.

Startled, Tom’s mouth snaps shut.

One of Tommy’s team mates, short and dark-haired, thumps Tommy on the back. “Throwdown in the fucking halls, huh, Conlon?” He says cheerfully.

“Should’ve sold tickets,” another one chimes in.

A third one, and Tom actually knows this guy – Peter Whittaker, from his World History class – adds, “Would’ve made a fucking killing.”

They all look at Tommy expectantly.

Tommy looks at each of them in turn, his expression neutral, and says, “Pete, Chad, Stuart— this is Tom.” He gestures at Tom. “Tom— Pete, Chad, and Stuart.”

“Hey,” Tom says quietly, lifting his hand in greeting. They greet him back easily but disinterestedly, and turn back almost immediately to Tommy.

“So,” the dark-haired one – Stuart – says, “what was that thing with Brendan over? We thought you were all about the Mr. Miyagi Zen master bullshit. Not showing any emotion and all that.”

Tom coughs out a disbelieving laugh. His amusement wins out over introversion and he speaks up, saying, “Tommy? _This_ Tommy?” He points. “You think _he’s_ a Zen master?”

“Man, shut up,” Tommy says, mouth crooking up into a grin. “How do you know I’m not a Zen master?”

“Because I live with you,” Tom says dryly.

“Not so perfect, huh?” Stuart says, grinning. There’s a slight— something to his grin. He seems satisfied, or pleased about something, although Tom has no idea what.

“Uh, no,” Tom says, one eyebrow raised. “Definitely not.” He grins at Tommy and kicks his foot to soften the words. Tommy just rolls his eyes.

Peter bangs his hand against the tabletop a few times. “Hey— _hey,_ ” he says. “We’re getting off-topic here.” He points at Tommy. “You. What’s the deal with you and your brother?”

“Why do you wanna know so badly?” Tommy asks. His voice is mild, but his mouth is pulling down into a frown.

“Uh, because you’re gonna be on the team next year?” Peter says. His _duh_ heavily implied. “Thought maybe we should all get to know each other.”

“Bren’s got nothing to do with wrestling.”

Peter rolls his eyes, exchanging a significant glance with Stuart. “Yeah, but—” he starts, before Chad, who’d remained relatively quiet, aside from his comment about how Tommy should’ve sold tickets, says, “Yeah but nothing. He obviously doesn’t wanna talk about it. Leave it.”

Well, that’s a surprise. Tom gives Chad a more thorough once over. He’s burly, more muscle bound than Tommy and the other two, with a square jaw and a crew cut. If he were basing his opinion on appearances alone, Tom would’ve thought he’d be the most likely to pressure Tommy into talking. But appearances mean jack all, Tom reminds himself.

“That ain’t even why we came over here, anyway,” Chad continues. He nods at Tommy. “There’s a party at my place next Saturday. You coming?”

Tommy immediately looks at Tom. Tom looks back, eyebrows raised. _What?_ He tries to say without speaking. _They’re inviting you, not me._

But Chad takes care of that by adding, “You too, Tom.”

Tom blinks, taken aback. He’s never been to a house party before. And, he realises abruptly, _neither has Tommy_. There’s no way he would’ve been allowed, not with the way Mr. Conlon had dominated Tommy’s schedule.

He looks back at Tommy, eyebrow quirked. _You want to?_

Tommy tilts his head, wordlessly conveying, _I’m game if you are._

Well. That settles that, Tom supposes. He looks back at Chad, shrugging to cover his nerves. “Sure,” he says. “Why not?” Across from him, Tommy nods his assent.

“Awesome,” Chad says. He slaps Tommy companionably on the back and rises. “Let’s go,” he says to Stuart and Peter. “I wanna go watch the cheerleaders practicing.” He pairs his statement with a much more stereotypical leer.

“But—” Stuart start to protest.

“Let’s _go,_ ” Chad says, hauling him up by the collar. Tom decides that he likes him.

After they’re long gone, Tom leans toward Tommy and says in an almost-whisper, “What the hell do people do at a house party?”

Tommy gives him an incredulous look. “You’re asking _me?_ ”

“I know you’ve never been to one, but I thought...” Tom hesitates briefly then shrugs. “I don’t know... I thought Brendan might’ve told you about them.”

Tommy’s expression shutters visibly at the mention of Brendan.

Tom looks down at the table. In light of Tommy’s teammates pushing him to talk, talking to Tommy about Brendan suddenly doesn’t seem like the best idea anymore. But even as he thinks that, Tom finds himself saying, “You’re not selfish. Or self-centred.”

Tommy lets out a small huff. “Tell that to Brendan, not me.”

Tom half-smiles, but it fades after a moment. “He’s jealous of you, you know,” he says.

“I know,” Tommy says. Tom can’t figure out his tone. He glances up, hoping to glean some clues from Tommy’s expression.

But the look on Tommy’s face is... Tom isn’t even sure. He looks irritated and resigned at the same time, like the knowledge of Brendan’s jealousy bothers him, but is also something he’s long since gotten used to.

And Tom’s sympathised with Brendan before. Because, _God,_ it must’ve been hard, growing up second favoured; Tommy is Tom’s best friend, but, even so, he can’t stop his occasional flashes of jealousy. How much harder must it have been for Brendan?

But right now, Tom doesn’t feel anything other than a sharp pang of sympathy for Tommy. It couldn’t have been much easier growing up knowing your brother resented you, at least in part.

“Has it always been like that?”

Tommy shrugs. “Long as I can remember,” he says. He quickly crams his sandwich into his mouth, clear Tommy-code for: _I don’t want to talk about this_.

Tom lets it go.

 

-

 

He lets it go until the following week, Brendan stops him in the halls, between second and third period, with a hand on his arm.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?” Brendan says, already drawing Tom aside. Tom eyes him warily, but allows himself to be pulled away.

He hasn’t seen Brendan since his fight with Tommy. The pair of them seem determined to give one another a wide berth, and since Tom spends the bulk of his time with Tommy, he’s been avoiding Brendan by default. But Tommy isn’t with him right now - it’s Thursday, and they won’t see each other until lunch.

“What do you need?” Tom asks Brendan without preamble, when they stop in a quieter corridor. He resists the urge to cross his arms; he doesn’t want to appear hostile.

Brendan rubs the back of his neck and leans against the wall. “I just...” he starts off slowly, before sighing. He looks off to the side. “How’s Ma?” He asks abruptly.

Tom blinks. _Don’t you know?_ He almost says, before common sense asserts itself. How could Brendan know? Irene hasn’t gone back to the house, Tom knows, and she definitely didn’t leave a note to tell Mr. Conlon where they were going. And with Tommy refusing to talk to Brendan, how could Brendan know how his mom was doing?

“She’s... she’s doing good,” Tom says. “She’s been a huge help for my mom, since my mom’s so busy with Rachel. That’s my little sister,” he adds helpfully. “She was only born last spring.”

“Yeah,” Brendan says quickly. “Yeah, I know. Tommy— he’s talked about her. And that’s good. That Ma’s doing okay. I’m... I’m glad.”

Tom nods. There’s an awkward beat before Brendan pulls a scrap of paper out of his pocket and holds it out to Tom, saying, “Look, this is— this is where I’m living now. If you could pass it on to Ma, I’d appreciate it.”

Tom takes the paper, glancing at the address. Brendan’s new home is located in Summer Hill, two neighbourhoods east of Tom’s.

“There’s a phone number too,” Brendan adds, apparently uncomfortable with Tom’s silence.

“Are you living with Tess?” Tom asks curiously.

Brendan looks down at his feet. The corners of his mouth tug up into a private, shy smile; to Tom, it looks almost involuntary. Like the mere mention of Tess is enough to get Brendan smiling. Tom stares at him, a little fascinated. What must that feel like? He wonders. To have someone you love so much that simply thinking about them can make you smile?

“Yeah,” Brendan says, still smiling. “Her parents are letting me stay in the guest bedroom. It’s just until college, but uh... if Ma wants to call or anything... that’s where I’m staying.” His smile fades a little as he glances at Tom sidelong.

And Tom knows the look on Brendan’s face. He’s seen it in the mirror plenty of times, whenever he thinks about his family in Jersey – half-worried they’ve forgotten about him, half-afraid of finding out for sure. His grandmother has begun calling him semi-regularly, but, so far, she’s the only one who has.

“I’ll give this to her,” Tom says firmly, holding up the slip of paper before tucking it securely into his wallet. Brendan smiles at him, his expression grateful and possibly even a little relieved.

His expression makes Tom soften further. “Hold up,” Tom says, digging around in his backpack to pull out a notebook and a pen. He flips to a blank page, braces the notebook against the wall and quickly scribbles down his address and phone number.

He tears the page out and holds it out to Brendan, saying, “Here. This our address and number. Irene’s usually home, but even if she’s not, we’ve got an answering machine. Feel free to call— well, whenever.”

Brendan takes the page, his smile turning crooked. “Thanks,” he says quietly. “I might give her a call later. Visiting probably isn’t the best idea. Since... y’know. Tommy.”

Tom tilts his head, slinging his bag back over his shoulder. “I think Irene would want to see you,” he says. “And... well, if it’s Tommy getting mad that you’re worried about, he has training after school most days. You could visit then.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Brendan says. He sounds slightly dubious, and Tom wants to point out that surely Brendan seeing his mom is worth risking Tommy’s ire? He doesn’t, though, because he has Mr. Morecambe for third period English, and he’s going to end up late for class at this rate.

They part amicably and Tom turns away, his mind working. One way or another, he thinks, things between Tommy and Brendan need to change.

 

-

 

Brendan doesn’t visit that week, but he does call. He calls almost every other day, actually. The calls are never longer than ten minutes or so - likely because Brendan is trying to stay on the good side of Tess’ parents - but they always leave Irene smiling.

It makes Tom smile, pleased that he could help a little toward that reconciliation, although Irene doesn’t seem to blame Brendan like Tommy does. The difference is marked, and he asks her about it, while she shows him how to make gnocchi. It’s easier than he would’ve thought - making gnocchi, that is.

Irene doesn’t pause in rolling out her dough. “He’s seventeen,” she says. “Almost a man. It was his decision.” There’s no bitterness or rancour in her voice.

“Tommy says that too, but he’s still pretty mad at Brendan.” Understatement.

“Tommy is stubborn.” Another understatement.

“I guess,” Tom says, shrugging and returning to cutting his dough. “I just... I don’t get why he’s so angry and you’re not.”

“Tommy is Brendan’s brother. I’m their mother,” Irene says, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does, to her. “Short of a drastic personality change that will transform them into people I don’t recognise, I’ll always love them and forgive them.”

“So you _do_ think Brendan not going with you is something that requires forgiving?”

“I was speaking generally,” Irene says peaceably.

“But if you _had_ gotten away... Tommy said you guys were going to go as far away as possible. If you’d gotten away, you never would’ve seen Brendan again. Aren’t you angry over that?”  Tom’s not quite sure why he’s being so dogged about this. It feels like he’s prodding at a sore tooth, all the while wondering when the pain will come.

Irene finally pauses. She wipes her hand on a tea towel slowly, expression reflective. “Angry isn’t the right word,” she says after a while. “Hurt, maybe. But he’s almost fully grown. I can’t make decisions for him forever.”

Tom nods, frowning.

Irene raises an eyebrow. “You don’t seem satisfied.”

Tom shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Maybe I was hoping you could give me some magic words that I could use on Tommy. Stop him from being mad at Brendan.”

Irene shakes her head, smiling faintly. She pats his cheek. “You can’t live people’s lives for them. You can’t fix everything for them. Tommy will forgive Brendan in his own time, in his own way.”

 _Or he might not,_ Tom thinks. Irene had said it herself. Tommy’s stubborn. He holds his tongue, though, unwilling to make her unhappy. And, even though she’d answered his question, something still niggles at him. He doesn’t know what it is, and he decides to keep silent until he can figure it out.

They spend a few quiet minutes rolling the dough pieces over a fork and dropping them into a saucepan of boiling water. They’re standing side by side at the stove, watching the gnocchi cook, when Irene says suddenly, “Your mother told me about your father. That he hasn’t contacted you since you moved here.”

Tom opens his mouth, but not a sound comes out. After a beat, he closes his mouth and simply nods jerkily at the saucepan.

He knows Irene and his mom talk; he’s often seen them at the kitchen table, chatting over tea. But he’d assumed it was Irene talking about her life, since it was probably the first time she had the freedom to. He’d never thought it might go both ways - that his mom might need someone to talk to as well.

“Some people are stubborn,” Irene says quietly. She smooths his hair down. “And some people find it hard to separate their hurt from their anger.”

Tom wonders if she’s talking about Tommy or Tom’s father. Maybe both. “So what do you do? While you wait for them to figure it out.”

“What you’ve already been doing. You carry on living your life,” Irene says, giving him a small smile.

Tom sighs. “And they’ll figure it out, in their own time and in their own way?”

Irene pats his shoulder. “Exactly right.”


End file.
